All in the glow of the Mountain
by Angel of Spiders
Summary: A young Orcling struggles for survival in a world where the weak only get in the way of the strong... mostly. Chapter 9 up!
1. Prolouge

It was late evening, and night was falling on the slopes of Ephel Dúath*. Above all was dark, but in the west the accursed sun glinted a last time upon the walls of Dushgoi** before disappearing behind the mountains. If Gothmog had had a nose, he would have wrinkled it in disgust. As it was, he could not because of the disease that made the left part of his head swell up. Instead he only narrowed his good right eye and shielded it from the burning rays. If this had been an ordinary day, he probably would have been drinking with the other commanders down in the caverns below the main tower of Dushgoi. However, this was no ordinary day.  
  
He growled with frustration and turned away from the wall. He quickly walked down the stairs of the wall, into one of the houses and down the stairs to the cellar below. An old, perhaps even ancient Orc female with thin white hair sat on a chair leaning against the wall, guarding the door before him. She looked like she was sleeping at first, but as Gothmog came closer she opened one eye and spoke.  
  
"Whaddya want?"  
  
"Aren't they finished yet?"  
  
"No. Get back up."  
  
"But they've been in there for an eternity! Let me in!"  
  
"You know it as well as everyone else! You've got nothin' to do in there before it's out! Now get away! It's not gonna happen quicker because you stand here."  
  
"But-"  
  
"Go!!"  
  
Gothmog growled menacingly towards her baring his yellow fangs. But he knew the old hagling was right. He had nothing to do in there. He backed a few paces and leant against the wall. Then the suddenly painful silence was broken by a moan, quickly followed by a loud and protesting shriek. The old hagling smiled at the sound, and then cackled when she saw the happy look upon the great Uruk's face.  
  
The hagling almost fell off the chair when the door to the chamber was opened and another old Orc female peered out. She poked a gnarled finger in Gothmog's direction and signed for him to come closer. As he did so she flung the door open and held out a black bundle towards him.  
  
At first he didn't really know what to do. It was very seldom Orc fathers got to see their cubs when they were newly born. Most times they only got to know if the cub was healthy and if it was male or female. The only thing males could decide about in these matters was its name. And that only if the cub was male. The cub knew who its father was, but the father seldom knew the child. Gothmog knew of many warriors who had unknowingly had command over their cubs in battle, and the cubs didn't tell them the truth until they finally lay dying upon the battlefield.  
  
The bundle began to move, and a small whimper of protest over being held out in the cold came from it. The haggling walked over to him and pushed the cub into his arms. He slowly unfolded the black cloth and gazed down into the little face that became unveiled.  
  
Huge red eyes, almost too huge for its face, looked curiously up on his distorted face. Eyes not very unlike his own. The skin was similar as well. 'So small,' he thought. 'So very, very small and fragile.'  
  
The old Orc female watched the Uruk examine the cub. She was watchful; she knew very well why so few males were allowed to see their children. Many Orc males didn't have that family-sense that was common among the females, and they were so rough and brutal they might kill the small cubs. They might see the cubs as rivals, or even - food.  
  
Gothmog lifted a finger and poked its cheek. Then he stroked the finger down between the cub's eyes, over the small pointed nose and down the chin. When he moved the finger up across its cheek again its suckling reflex began to work. The cub turned its head and bit down upon his finger. He gave a loud grunt when the small but sharp fangs stung into the skin. The Orc female cackled.  
  
"He's a big boy, ain't he? Already got fangs and all. Thought of any name yet?"  
  
Gothmog nodded slowly while the little Orcling continued to suckle and chew on his fingertip. He pulled his finger out of the Orclings grip and lifted it into the air. The cub got interested in its own fists instead and put one into its mouth while all the time keeping its eyes upon its father.  
  
"Erishnak," he growled. "Erishnak."  
  
Notes: * Ephel Dúath = the Mountains of Shadow on the western borders of Mordor.  
  
** Dushgoi = Witchcity, the name for Minas Morgul in the Black Speech. Note that this is not the "real" Black Speech that was made up by Tolkien, but a "debased" form, made up by Swedish live roleplayers. There is an online wordlist for this language, but unfortunately only in Swedish. If you would like the URL anyway, or want me to translate something, send a mail to me! 


	2. In the glow of the mountain

Some years later.  
  
The ironclad female gazed around the room slowly, careful not to move her head so that the one who paced around in front of her should notice. The fires of the burning mountain glared trough the high window, making the opposite wall glow red, as it always did. The fires that lit the room flickered in the same way. And the darkness that shrouded the being in front of her was still imperishable. As it had always done.  
  
How many times had she bowed like this? How many times had she stood before this throne, patiently waiting for Him to take notice? How many times? She did not know. Perhaps forever? It did not matter. She had done it before; she would do it again, over and over, as would everyone in this land. And soon everyone in this world, if one was to believe His words. And everyone did. To do not was folly.  
  
The darkness had stopped moving and turned towards her. Or was it from her? She could not know. None knew whither the Eye turned next. But obviously He took notice, for He spoke.  
  
"I know why thou hast come." She could not help from jumping when His voice pierced the silence. A sharp whisper, a shriek, a thunder, shaking the earth and making the very air shiver. She nodded slowly. He always knew.  
  
"And you already know my answer, Záhovar*."  
  
"I do."  
  
"Good," He said and began pacing the room again. "You may not have the command over the Morannon, as you have little experience of warfare. However, you may accomplish another task for me. I need to send a message to Minas Morgul about certain. events that have occurred. You may be that messenger, if you would like?"  
  
He stopped again, awaiting an answer He already knew. No one refused an order given by the Dark Lord himself. And yet he asked her about it, as if to give her a false sense of freedom and own will. When He recieved no answer, He continued. "When you come there you could as well stay there and await the message back. I believe it will take some time for Argor** to get things started over there. See it as a vacation."  
  
"As you wish, my Lord," she said, bowing. 'Great, a vacation to a place with again nothing to do. The only change will probably be the view.'  
  
She heard Him turn quickly towards her and she bit her lip. How could she forget that He read people's minds like open books before Him?  
  
"Nothing to do? Oh no, child. Did you really believe that my second-in- command would leave you there with nothing to do? Think again." He went over to a table and picked up a scroll, which He gave to her.  
  
"Ride as quickly as you can to Minas Morgul, but beware. Ithilien is full of gondorian rangers. I would rather send this message with one of the Nazgûl, but as they are all in Minas Morgul, I shall have to suffice with you instead. Dismissed."  
  
Her own black mare, Nagîthas***, was already prepared and waiting for her in the lower courtyard. The small snaga**** trying to hold the prancing horse bowed low when it saw her coming, giving the reins to her. Nagîthas stroke her ears back and gave the snaga a kick when it passed her hind legs. It gave a loud shriek and ran off into one of the surrounding barracks.  
  
Záhovar pulled the mare's head down by the reins and knocked on its forehead with an ironclad knuckle. The mare, recognizing her owner, buffed on her breastplate and muttered softly. Záhovar mounted as fast as the heavy armour allowed her to and turned her steed towards the gate. The powerful mare danced on the spot for a moment before whipping its tail and began to trot down the empty causeway.  
  
Closer to the gates the traffic became thicker. Snagas pulling wagons or carrying sacks, Uruks of different sizes, messengers from remote cities and fastnesses, trading caravans, ambassadors from other countries - This tower was the middle part of a great wheel, the heart of a huge engine only held together by the next war. If the war should end everything would shatter like the dust clouds on the remote mountain roads.  
  
Everyone who saw her coming moved out of the way and soon a passage was opened for her in the middle of the turmoil at the gates. They all knew better than to stand in the way of a High Officer. And if they did, she would just ride them down anyway. That's the way things worked, if the weak came in the way of the strong, they were annihilated.  
  
As soon as she came out of the gates Nagîthas began to prance and toss her head restlessly. A soft pressure of Záhovar's legs was enough to make her buck a few times and stop short. She rose to her full height on her hind legs, letting out a sound that was more of a shriek than a neigh. Then she exploded into a wild gallop, the sound of ironclad hooves on the stones echoing into the shattered wilderness of Gorgoroth, now and then broken by the thundering tremor of the mountain.  
  
Later in Minas Morgul.  
  
"But use the weapon, ya little imp! How are ye supposed to fight in a battle when ye don't even dare to lift yer hand? Come on again, and show some confidence!"  
  
Erishnak eyed his opponent, the huge Uruk who were supposed to be his mentor during his training period. The Uruk growled menacingly, attacking him again, aiming for his stomach. Erishnak threw himself onto the ground backwards to avoid the blade, rolling around and making a cutting move upwards with the stick he used instead of a sword. The stick hit the Uruk's ribbons hard under his arm. The Uruk fell to the ground, gasping for air.  
  
"Oops. Sorry," he said.  
  
"Ye don't ask yer enemies forgiveness after you've killed them, do ye?" the Uruk sneered between the gasps. "'That was a good move. Train some more an' ye might even become useful."  
  
The Uruk went over to one of the smaller onlookers, who offered him a water skin and a cloth. Erishnak's throat felt like it was filled with sand, but he knew no one would ever come with water or cloth to him. Like the Uruks and his -mentor- said, he was nothing more than a useless little imp. They never spoke to him, other than scorn and foul words. He was surprised that his mentor actually gave him a compliment for once, albeit not a very nice one.  
  
Erishnak raised his head and saw his mentor talking to a strange-looking Orc. He had flesh pink skin, and the left side of his head, the side that was turned Erishnak's way, was swelled up and extremely distorted, making his good right side look almost as smooth and well shaped as one of those infamous Elves. Erishnak knew that face all too well. His father, Gothmog, second-in-command of Dushgoi and the most powerful Warlord in the entire Black Land, his hero and the one he was supposed to become like. The one he wanted to become like.  
  
The warlord said something, tossing his head in Erishnak's direction. They were talking about him! His father was probably asking how he was doing. Oh Darkness, let mentor say at least something good!  
  
The mentor laughed and shook his head. Erishnak grinded his teeth together. He wanted to rush up there, telling his father about how bad they were treating him, and how he wished for father to take him away from this place! But he stayed where he was. To interrupt a warlord as mighty as Gothmog was true folly, it would only bring him a huge punishment.  
  
Gothmog grunted a dismissal. The mentor bowed and left. Then Gothmog turned his head towards him. Erishnak felt nervous under the piercing gaze of his father and slowly bowed his head. That was how it came to be that he did not see his fathers approving smile. When he raised his head, his father was already gone.  
  
Later that evening.  
  
Erishnak stood upon one of the battlements of the outer wall of Dushgoi. He leant his head into his arms to silence the muffled sobs that he could not hold back. He would often stand upon the battlements, gazing out into the world beyond, a world that he had never seen and only heard faint rumours of. And he always cried then, cried about all the things he missed, things that he would never get to know, never get to feel. When he had asked his mentor about the world beyond the valley, he had simply answered; "the only time you'll see that land, is when you march out with the other soldiers to die upon the battlefield." Then he had asked him why. The answer was; "because Uruks are made to die." Then he asked what would happen afterwards. "Darkness perhaps? I don't care."  
  
That had almost choked him with fear then. Erishnak didn't want to die. And he was afraid of darkness. Too much light stung his eyes, but complete blackness felt like it would creep up and choke him, especially after when his mentor told him about the monster that hid in the pass in the mountains beyond Dushgoi and crept up at dark nights to catch little Orcs and suck the flesh out of them, leaving only a rotting skin sack beyond. Should anyone get to know they probably would have scorned him forever.  
  
He stopped weeping and rubbed the tears off his cheeks. Outside the valley things were getting brighter. Much brighter. The guards on the walls hissed and ducked behind the walls. Erishnak didn't know it, but now was the time when the sun was setting, and then it would shine in below the roof of darkness above before sinking beyond the mountains. Then everything turned into piercing white. Erishnak shrieked and threw himself down behind the wall, rubbing his burning eyes. One of the guards saw it and hurried to his side. The guard cursed loudly while opening a water skin and forcing Erishnak's hands down. Then he poured the cool water into his eyes.  
  
"Ya little fool! Didn't ya see all the others were hiding?!"  
  
"I- I didn't know..." he wailed.  
  
"Well, now ya know! Maybe you're careful the next time and not be at the battlement at sunset?"  
  
"I- I won't..."  
  
Erishnak slowly opened his eyes. They were still stinging and watering from the sun, but at least he could see now. The guard checked his eyes once more to make sure he had his sight left intact, and then he went back to his post. The sun was gone now and all quickly went darker.  
  
Erishnak walked away towards the mountain wall on the left side of the valley. He didn't know it, but it was ten years on the day since his father stood on the same wall, waiting for him to make his entry into the world.  
  
He smiled and began to jump, both feet together, on each wall stone until he reached the mountain. There he stopped short. Down the wall here was some edges that one perhaps, with a bit of luck, could use to climb down. Then the idea came to him; leave, leave here and now! Leave and see the world beyond these mountains! 'Quick decision,' he thought and began to search for the best way down. It was steep, slippery and very far to fall, but the sudden urge for freedom was too strong. It was difficult; he slipped at some points and once ended up hanging in only his hands. But he made it all the way down.  
  
He landed softly on all four on the ground close to the wall. The guards could not be seen anywhere. 'They are probably sitting down behind the walls talking and drinking,' Erishnak thought. Everyone knew that no enemy dared to attack Dushgoi. He sneaked away towards the road, then followed it crouched in the dike beside it. At one point the road became a bridge, crossing a small dark river. He prepared to run across the bridge, when a strange sound reached his ears. A rhythmic sound like small hammers falling on cold iron- and it came closer! He ducked beneath the bridge as the thing causing the sound came into the valley.  
  
* Záhovar = Jewel. Her full name is Zí-Záhovar, the Black Jewel. This is the only female High Officer in Barad-Dur. ** Argor = the witch-King. *** Nagîthas = Horrible. **** Snaga = small slave Orc. 


	3. Things begin to change

With the speed Nagîthas held, Záhovar reached the Imlad Morgul on the evening the day after she set out from Barad-Dûr. Now she let the mare walk slowly into the valley, humming a slow tune for herself. At the bridge however, the mare halted and refused to go further. Having spent many weeks at times with Nagîthas as sole company, she knew how to read the mare's signals. Something was wrong here. Záhovar's sensitive ears picked up a rustle from beneath the bridge. She made the horse sidewalk to the edge of the bridge.  
  
"Whoever hides under this bridge, come forth!" She called. The mare snorted approvingly.  
  
Things were silent at first, then something moved under the left side of the bridge. Záhovar gripped the hilt of her sword, ready to strike if it would attack. "It" appeared to be a frightened little snaga. She sighed and let go of the hilt. Then she eyed the creature up and down.  
  
"What were you doing down there?"  
  
"H-hiding."  
  
"From what?"  
  
"I. didn't know what you were."  
  
"Who is your master?"  
  
"Master? I don't. have a master."  
  
"What? A snaga must have a master."  
  
"I'm not a snaga!" it said with a stubborn look and climbed up on the bridge.  
  
"Are you telling me that you are an Uruk?"  
  
"Yes. an Orcling."  
  
"Oh. then I understand. But what are you doing out here?"  
  
"I was curious. I wanted to see what's out there," he said and pointed. Záhovar began to take a closer look at the small Orcling. He had huge deep red eyes, grey pink skin. that was odd for a Morgul Orc. Most were black or grey with pure red eyes. She only knew of one Morgul Orc who had this combination of colours.  
  
"Are you Gothmog's cub?" The Orcling looked up, surprised.  
  
"Well. yes. Or I'm supposed to be."  
  
"Supposed to be?"  
  
"He doesn't seem to care."  
  
"He hasn't spoken with you at all?" The Orcling shook his head and looked to the ground. Záhovar smiled.  
  
"Come here," she said and stretched out an arm towards him. "What?"  
  
"Come up here." He took a quick glance towards Nagîthas and looked unhappy.  
  
"She will not touch you. Come now." He edged slowly closer, all the time he had his eyes fixed upon the mare's head. Nagîthas stomped her left hind leg as if to show him she could be dangerous in other directions as well. The Orcling tried to leap away, but Záhovar leant over and grabbed his arm, easily pulling him into her arms. Then she dropped him into the saddle in front of her. Nagîthas, who didn't like Orcs at all, immediately began to prance and buck.  
  
"Nagîthas! Be still," Záhovar commanded. Then she turned to the Orcling, who was now shivering with fear of being held.  
  
Erishnak was terrified. He had done something forbidden by venturing out of the city, and now this strange and horrible monster came upon him, questioning him and grabbing him and pulling him up onto the terrifying beast it was sitting upon. If it was a beast, maybe they even were one and the same being. What was it? Were the stories his mentor had told him true, about the monster from the mountain that ate bad Orclings?  
  
Záhovar rested her hands on the saddle horn while looking at the shivering cub. Gothmog had been one of her few real friends in Barad-Dûr before he left for Minas Morgul. A cruel and tough Orc captain, but also at the few times he could really relax and put off his heavy duties, almost childish.  
  
"What is your name?" she asked.  
  
"E-Erishnak."  
  
"Erishnak. That is an odd name for an Orc."  
  
"Err. Is it?"  
  
"Yes. Anyway, this is no place for a small Orcling."  
  
"Ehm... what's your name?"  
  
She did not answer. Instead she took the reins, spurring Nagîthas into a short gallop. The mare leaped forward, racing down to the gate. One of the Orc guards peered over the edge, calling out to them.  
  
"Who goes there?"  
  
"A messenger from Lugbûrz*." The guard looked around the hills nervously.  
  
"How do I know that?"  
  
Záhovar sighed audibly and called out in the most authoritative voice she owned.  
  
"I am a High Officer of Barad-Dúr and a servant of the Dark Lord! I order you in His name to open the gate or send a message to the Lord of this city that Zí-Záhovar wish to enter!"  
  
The guard recoiled at the naming of the Dark Lord and yelled something to someone on the other side. Quick footsteps could be heard on the stones when a messenger ran up to the main tower of the city. After a while the footsteps returned with the message: Let her in immediately! The guard yelled an order and the gate swung open with a clang. Záhovar spurred Nagîthas forward. As she passed the gate she rolled her eyes in the guard's direction and muttered:  
  
"Orcs! Dorût**."  
  
Then she galloped up to the Tower; Erishnak still sitting in front of her in the saddle staring wondrously around at the awed and fearful gazes he got. Záhovar smiled inwardly. The Orcling probably had never got this kind of attention before, nor had he understood before now that the one picking him up at the bridge was one of the "Top Ones", as the Orcs called them, the High Officers and the Hands of the Dark Lord. Now he was stiff as a frozen branch as she clutched him tighter.  
  
Now she had reached the inner courtyard right outside the Tower of the Moon, the former capital of Gondor, now the head quarter of the Nazgûl. The Lord of the nazgûl was already standing in the doorway to the main tower as she came. As she galloped under the gateway Nagîthas stopped short and skidded almost to the middle of the huge courtyard. Záhovar leaped out of the saddle before the mare even had stopped skidding and landed a few paces away from the horse with the terrified Erishnak in her arms.  
  
No surprise or any kind of expression could be seen in the blackness of the Nazgûl-Lord's hood. Short gasps of surprise could be heard from the crowd standing outside the tavern on the left side of the courtyard when they noticed the Orcling in her arms. One of the Orcs yelled something in through the tavern door.  
  
Then suddenly another Orc burst through the crowd and ran out towards Záhovar. One glance upon the left side of his head, and Záhovar knew who it was. Gothmog. When she turned to face him he stopped short aghast.  
  
"This is your cub?" Záhovar asked.  
  
"It is." he answered.  
  
"Good. Look after him better next time," she said and threw Erishnak into his father's arms. When Gothmog was busy grabbing hold of his son so that he would not fall she strode up and pinched his good right ear, pulling him closer.  
  
"These here do not know my identity, do not reveal me to them," she hissed into his ear.  
  
"Aye, master," he answered, grinning secretly. Then he looked down at Erishnak.  
  
"What has he done to upset you, my Lord?"  
  
"He has not upset me, warlord, but obviously he was attempting to desert. I found him under the bridge. His answer to my question of what he was doing there was that he wanted to look at the world," She said and laughed coldly. Gothmog laughed as well, slowly putting Erishnak back onto the ground, and then placed a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"You come with me, lad," he said. "We have things to talk about." He turned to Záhovar.  
  
"Will you join us, my Lord?"  
  
"Nay, I must leave my message to the Nazgûl-Lord. After all, that is my reason for being here." With that she turned and left.  
  
Gothmog saw her leave with mixed emotions. He was glad that she was finally back after this long time. And yet... He looked down at Erishnak who nervously shifted under his hand. He had not spoken nor touched his son since the evening he was born. Long had he watched him grow from a distance. Gothmog had wanted to take the cub with him when he first had got his hands upon it, but the old Orc females had said no. Reluctantly he had left the child to the caretaking first of its mother, then of a mentor, an Orc of lower rank who would teach the child the basics of fighting and warfare.  
  
But now things had changed. 'Take care of him better next time'. That could be seen as an order from a higher ranked officer, could it not?  
  
"Well," Gothmog growled, causing Erishnak to jump. "Shall we?" He motioned his hand towards the tavern. Erishnak looked up at his father, then nodded. They began to walk towards the tavern. When they reached the crowd in front of the door no one made any sign of moving. Erishnak stopped reluctantly and looked at his father.  
  
"Step aside," Gothmog growled to them.  
  
"Why should we step aside for an Orcling," one of them sneered. Gothmog narrowed his good right eye and slowly walked up to the one who had spoken. Swifter than anyone could react he had grabbed the others throat and pushed him up against the wall.  
  
"That Orcling," he said, "happens to be my son. Speak like that to him again, I dare you, and I will cut your ears of with a rusty fork!"  
  
The other croaked an answer and Gothmog let go of him. The Orc fled out through the gateway, all the way covering his ears with his hands. Gothmog looked around on the others, baring his fangs.  
  
"Anyone else?" The others moved aside surprisingly fast. Gothmog nodded to Erishnak.  
  
"Come on laddie. Let's go in and see if they try to stand in our way in there as well."  
  
Notes:  
  
* Lugbûrz = the Dark Tower. ** Dorût = cattle. 


	4. Friendship Renewed

Záhovar walked over the courtyard towards the gate where the cloaked Nazgûl- Lord stood before. He was gone now. She couldn't help but slowing her walk in the doorway, taking a quick glance around before entering into the darkness of the Tower.  
  
Inside the Tower all she could see was complete darkness. It was nothingness. This black mist was of the same kind that covered Barad-Dûr and engulfed those who dared set foot inside the caves beneath Cirith Ungol, laid out to avoid spies coming into the Black Land. Torches and such were of no use here.  
  
Suddenly, as she strode past a hidden doorway, the voice reached her ears.  
  
"Zzzzáhovaar..." The icy cold hiss threatened to freeze her entire body as well as the darkness where she could see nothing. Nothing except the red glowing eyes of the tall menacing wraith standing just in front of her. Záhovar coughed a few times, trying to thaw her tongue so that she could speak.  
  
"Follow," the wraith-lord said, before she had time to answer. He turned and began to walk down the hallway with great speed, forcing Záhovar to almost run to keep up with him. This was not easy because of the heavy black knight-armour, which slowed her movements.  
  
At last, after rushing through several gates and halls and stumbling up what seemed like countless stairs, they came into a huge room with windows facing eastward and westward. Now everything was dark outside, but the walls of the Cursed City themselves was glowing with an eerie light, so no torches was needed, except for in the dungeons below the city. The sight out the window indicated that they had reached the topmost chamber of the Tower.  
  
Záhovar stopped at the end of the stairs while the Nazgûl strode over to the west window. There he stopped.  
  
"What have brought thee here, Záhovar?"  
  
"A message from the Dark Lord."  
  
"From His own mouth?"  
  
"Yes my Lord."  
  
"I will call for the others, so that they also can hear what the Dark Lord commands." With that he swiftly turned to the window, and Záhovar was pressed against the wall by a piercing scream.  
  
Erishnak was terrified. He didn't really know what had happened, only that it was bad. His father seemed angry, and Erishnak knew it was because of him. He didn't dare to move, barely to breathe, and he kept his eyes on the floor beneath his feet.  
  
When they had entered the tavern some of the other Orcs had looked, some had sneered, but when Gothmog had called them on it they had calmed down quickly. Then he had helped him up on the bench at a table that had seemed somewhat whole at first sight. But when Gothmog had leant his heavy elbows on it the legs of the table had snapped, and they had both ended on the floor in a heap. Erishnak had felt extremely embarrassed and had been on the verge of running away if Gothmog hadn't laughed, lifted him to his feet and ordered a new table. Such things happen all the time, Gothmog had said. Uruks are an aggressive kind, and when they get drunk, they get even more aggressive. So they fight, and break tables and chairs. The tables were repaired, and then broken again, over and over until they couldn't be repaired anymore. So most of the tables in the tavern looked like strange animals, crooked and bent in different angles. Some looked like they were about to creep out of the tavern on their own.  
  
Gothmog took a sip of the ale and eyed the small one he had called his son. Ten cold seasons since he had touched him. Ten cold seasons. He had watched him from afar, eyeing every step he took. And he'd been proud. Every small succession Erishnak had made, every small move added to his skills with the sword, and the bow, and Gothmog had boasted about it, telling his companions and fellow warlords what a skilful son he had. And sometimes, when Erishnak had failed a task, he had wanted to take over the training himself, showing Erishnak exactly how to do.  
  
But the haglings had said no. 'You can't do it', they had said. 'What do you mean can't do it? Of course I can do it, he's my son!' But now, as he thought of it, maybe the haglings were right. He couldn't even start a conversation. 'This won't do', he thought.  
  
"Whazza matter little one? Are you afraid of me?" he asked trying to soften his voice, an attempt which failed. Erishnak nodded. Gothmog nodded too, and went quiet. Then he tried again to get his attention.  
  
"Are ya thirsty?" Erishnak shook his head.  
  
"Hungry?" The little one shook his head again. Gothmog sighed and leaned his elbow on the table and his head into his hand. Then they sat quiet for a long moment.  
  
Erishnak got very nervous when the silence tensed. He slowly began to finger the edge of his tunic, twisting it in his fists. He jumped when Gothmog began to chuckle. Then he sat as still as before. Gothmog laughed again and Erishnak lifted his gaze just enough to see his face. Gothmog smiled and lifted his right good hand and waved his thumb in Erishnak's direction. Erishnak's eyes went huge, then he quickly lowered his gaze again. Gothmog took a swig of the ale, glad that he finally got some kind of response.  
  
"Heh. I remember you as an Orcling," Gothmog said. Erishnak slowly looked up.  
  
"You... saw me then?"  
  
"Aye... You was so small then, ye almost fit into my hands." He chuckled again. "And when I first held ye..." He held his hand up. "Ye bit my thumb! That's why I waved it at ye before. I thought that... perhaps ye remembered."  
  
"I was... so small then, I don't remember anything of that time..."  
  
"Aye, I know... I was hoping... Heh. Just a fool's hope, eh?" He waved his thumb again and laughed. Erishnak began to giggle as well, and soon they both roared with laughter for no reasons at all.  
  
When they had regained themselves they realised it was quiet in the tavern. Completely quiet. Gothmog looked around and noticed that everyone was looking at them. Then he looked at Erishnak, who was pale as a ghost and had pressed himself against the wall. Now Gothmog noticed the menacing shadow looming over him from the far side of the table. He slowly turned towards it, as the word 'Nazgûl' shot through his head. No, wait. This was no Nazgûl. It had blue eyes.  
  
"Err... Lad- I mean, lord Záhovar?" he asked. A soft distant laughter was heard, and then the darkness seemed to shrink back into the body, revealing Záhovar's slender form.  
  
"Greetings, warlord. Will you offer me a place at your table?"  
  
"Oh, sure. Erishnak, come 'ere." Erishnak crept down beneath the table and appeared on the bench between Gothmog and the wall. Záhovar sat down at Erishnak's former place, after ordering some brandy and arguing with the barkeep about the price she sat quiet, looking into the wall.  
  
Erishnak eyed the stranger. That dark mist had veiled the face earlier when the stranger had picked him up at the bridge. Now he looked all different from the other Top Ones he had seen. All of them were either wraiths or Men with grim faces from the East or the South. Not this one, however. The skin on his face was smooth and pale, almost white. His long hair that hung down his back, almost to the ground, was black as the night sky, the flickering torchlight making it look like dark fire. His eyes were different as well, glowing blue with small streaks of black in them. But what were most different were his ears.  
  
"Why does he have square ears?" Erishnak whispered to Gothmog. Gothmog, who had taken another swig of the ale, spat it out on the ground, began to cough and gave Záhovar an apologising look. The ghost of a smile passed over Záhovar's face.  
  
"That is a long and painful story," she answered softly. "They were cut."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Gothmog let out an audible sigh of relief as Záhovar answered his son's question instead of punishing him. He knew Záhovar, she could do such things, especially when she was in a temper, which she seemed to be now. To turn Erishnak into other, less dangerous thoughts, he began to ask him about his training.  
  
Záhovar slowly turned her gaze to the wall again. The meeting had been... somewhat disturbing to her mind. She hadn't been allowed to leave after giving the message to the Nazgûl, instead she was forced to listen to their debate. She hated, and (although she would never admit it) feared the Nazgûl, and most of the debate was held in their own tongue, which for living ears mostly consisted of ghostly hisses and squeals.  
  
She lifted a hand to one of her ears. She didn't remember anything of her past before she came to Mordor, since the Dark Lord, Zigûr*, had used an efficient, and rather painful, way to erase her mind. She still remembered what occurred when she first came here, however. That, He didn't allow her to forget. If she did, He only used his power over her mind to remind her of it. Her ears were the first things He had cut. She knew they had been pointy at first, for the Dark Lord had showed the tips to her before burning them. Then He had branded the Sign of the Eye into her chest, to prevent her escape, since if she would ever meet any of her former kind again they would know to whom she belonged and that she could never be turned back again. After these first memories everything floated together in a whirlwind of pain. First she had refused. Refused to call Him Master. Refused to give in. Then He had inflicted more pain, in her body, mind and soul. She did not know how long it went on until she finally gave in. But she had. She had thought she would die, that she would fade, she had wished to, but somehow He kept her alive. After the torment her strength had returned.  
  
Later He had told her that it was a kind of experiment. That He wanted to know, when He finally conquered Middle-Earth, if the Elves were possible to turn, and how much effort it would take. Obviously He had succeeded, for if not, she wouldn't have been here.  
  
"Whaddya mean failure?? Ye'r not a failure!" Záhovar was dragged out of her thoughts by Gothmog's angry voice.  
  
"But... he said, so many times-"  
  
"What more did he say?"  
  
"Th-that you thought I was a hopeless case and that you didn't want anything to do with such a failure. The last t-time he... he..."  
  
Gothmog narrowed his eyes. "He what?"  
  
"He... said that... you had o-ordered him to- to... k-ill me." Erishnak was clearly fighting the tears that threatened to spill down his face, not wanting to show his father what a weakling he had become. Gothmog's face was a study in shock and fury. He slowly lifted his gaze from Erishnak and turned to Záhovar who steadily met his gaze with cold eyes.  
  
"I'm gonna kill him," he declared. Záhovar nodded approval. Erishnak let out a soft wail and buried his face into Gothmog's cloak, leaning onto his lap. Gothmog didn't really know what to do now, he had never comforted anything in his entire life (except himself, but that was different), so he looked to Záhovar for help.  
  
"Tell him the truth," she simply said. Gothmog turned back to Erishnak, who had wrapped himself into the cloak, his small body shaking. Gothmog placed his good hand on Erishnak's back, stroking him gently.  
  
"Now now, little one, everything will be alright." He took the cloak away from Erishnak's face and turned it so he could look him in his eyes.  
  
"Erishnak, listen to me. Whatever that bastard has said - just forget it! He lied to ye, an' he'll pay for it. Ye'r no weakling, an' ye'r definitely not a failure. I'm damn proud of ye. An' remember; ye can't be a weakling, 'cause ye'r my son! Damn it, ye'r the strongest little lad I've ever seen in your age! Look at me, ye think I was this strong when I was in your age? Uh-uh," he said and shook his head.  
  
"If it wasn't for her," he said, nodding towards Záhovar, "I wouldn't even be here. Here ye can talk about failure!" Erishnak sat up and rubbed his eyes with Gothmog's cloak. Then he remembered something. "Her? Female?"  
  
"Yeah, that's a female," Gothmog nodded. Erishnak looked surprised.  
  
"Have you ever heard of a male named Jewel?" Záhovar said and laughed coldly. Erishnak laughed a bit as well. Suddenly a sharp piercing shriek was heard from the Tower. Some of the orcs in the tavern threw themselves to the ground, covering their ears. Gothmog and Erishnak looked wildly towards the Tower. Záhovar however, did not stir. She only listened until the shriek ended, then she quickly arose from the bench, walking out of the tavern with great speed, knocking another Uruk over in the doorway as she went.  
  
Erishnak was just about to ask Gothmog more about Záhovar when a bewildered Uruk entered the Tavern.  
  
"G-Gothmog!!" When he saw Gothmog, he went up to their table. "Cap'n, You've gotta come! Ups, forgot, Warlord, sorry."  
  
"What's happening?"  
  
"They're fighting, ye gotta come, I can't stop it!"  
  
They followed the Uruk down to the dungeons located in the mountain wall on the East Side of the City. Already at the surface the screams and clangs of weapons could be heard. As they reached the dungeon where the argument had begun Gothmog turned towards Erishnak.  
  
"I don't want ye to see this, not yet at least. Go back to the cavern and get yer stuff. And if anyone asks, say ye got orders from me." Erishnak nodded and left. Gothmog turned towards the dungeon again when another yell came from inside. He sighed.  
  
"Not again! These scum always starts to fight! Can they never agree about anything?" The Uruk looked nervous.  
  
"Well... This time it began with-"  
  
"Never mind. Go in there and get the responsible commanders. Tell them to stop this immediately, or I'll stop them." The Uruk began to enter, casting a nervous glance back towards the safety on the surface.  
  
"NOW," Gothmog growled.  
  
*Zigûr = Orcish name for Sauron. In Adunaic Zigûr means Sorcerer. 


	5. For Better or For Worse

For Better or For Worse  
  
Erishnak was laughing with happiness as he went down the alley where Záhovar had rode with him earlier. It seemed now like that happened an age ago. He almost couldn't believe that his greatest dream had actually come to pass, Gothmog would take care of him, Záhovar would protect him and no one would ever dare to hurt him again!  
  
When he came to the entrance of the stables he noticed a big ugly rat sitting in a corner, eyeing him warily. He made a wicked little grin, deciding to try out his newly found strength. Baring his small fangs, he leapt towards the rat and tried to growl menacingly as he had seen his father do. It sounded a bit awkward, but the rat squeaked and disappeared into a hole in the stable wall. Erishnak giggled at the rat, feeling almighty, having no thought about the fact that it might be dangerous for him here.  
  
"Well well, what do we got here," a voice behind him said. The smile on Erishnak's face died. "The little runaway I think!" A strong hand pinched his ear and twisted it, making him yowl with pain. Erishnak was spun around to face his furious mentor.  
  
"Let me gooo!" he yelled.  
  
"Oh no, little imp. Not this time. Where the hell have ye been?! I've been lookin' all over the place for ya! An' ye know ye'r not allowed to be in the stables!"  
  
"Trying to make me believe you care for me?"  
  
"Shut up!" He was quieted by a slap. "Answer me!"  
  
Instead of answering Erishnak did his best to get loose so he could run. The mentor pushed him up against the stable wall.  
  
"Answer me!" he growled into Erishnak's ear. Erishnak tried to call for help, but that was only rewarded with another slap.  
  
"Answer me! Where have you been?"  
  
"W-with my father."  
  
"Don't try to fool me. He wants nothing to do with you. Answer me!"  
  
"But it is the truth!!" Erishnak yelled. "It IS true! He do want with me to do, an' I've told him 'bout all that you've done to me, and he will kill you for it!!!"  
  
The mentor hesitated for a moment, then he hit Erishnak again.  
  
"And I," he whispered into Erishnak's ear, "will kill you for slandering."  
  
Erishnak tried to scream, but the mentor placed his hand over his mouth and nose, making it impossible for him to breathe.  
  
"You better not scream," he hissed furiously, "or I'll make ye suffer, oh yes..."  
  
Erishnak began to feel dizzy. 'Must... Breathe...' he thought, and his struggles became weaker. Then help came, from the most unusual way.  
  
***  
  
Gothmog groaned, leaning his head into his good hand. The 'peacemaking' had not gone very well, they had even been forced to execute some of the worst troublemakers before the whole thing died down. Now he was angry and had a terrible headache.  
  
"Damn idiots... Failure in command, my ass! Bloody uproar, at least..." Then he remembered that he had to leave a report on the whole thing too. "Shit." That thought gave him an even worse headache. Not because of the report itself, he had done that a lot of times, but he had to figure out a way to save his own neck and make it sound like he had nothing to do with it. In fact he didn't have anything to do with it, but you could never be too sure when it came to the Nazgûl.  
  
He suddenly got a wish to kill every living thing in Dushgoi, and growling to whomever happened to look upon him eased the pain a bit. Záhovar! She could help him, she was good at... ehrm... 'Delegating' responsibility when things went wrong.  
  
***  
  
Nagîthas hated orcs. She had been one of the Mearas, the finest, fastest and strongest horses in Middle-Earth. When she was a small foal she had run freely upon the open plains of Rhûn with her mother and the rest of the herd. Then the orcs had killed her mother and captured her, forced a horrible bridle around her head and beaten her with sticks and fists. Then he had been brought to Mordor, where she had first become tainted and given to Záhovar. She didn't remember the sound of water or the taste of fresh grass, but she never forgot the fists and the sticks.  
  
When she heard noises in the door she let out an irritated snort. Who dared disturb her? That smell... Orcs! Rage welled up inside her and she let out a growling neigh. She stroke her ears back against her neck and bit the iron bars that were fastened in the wall to serve as a window. Then she noticed a choked, whimpering sound. She recognised that voice.. It must be the young orcfoal that her mistress had found outside the city. Nagîthas hated orcs, but she was strongly attached to her rider, and would rather die than upset her. And perhaps, helping this little one could help her in some way in the future.  
  
Nagîthas stepped up against the opposite wall and then, with all the might of her rage and anguish, she crashed into the wooden planks and iron bars of the stable wall, leaping through it.  
  
The mentor let go of Erishnak when the furious horse came flying through the wall. Nagîthas pranced, screaming in fury and kicked him so that he fell, hitting his head on the floor. She finished it with a hard kick in the ribbons. The mentor slid away to the opposite wall, then all was silent. Nagîthas made sure he wouldn't move again, then she went over to Erishnak.  
  
Erishnak had crept into a pile of hay and curled into a ball there when his tormentor had let go of him. All confidence he had felt earlier was gone. He was the smallest weakling in the whole world, and that rat he scared earlier probably sat in some corner now, laughing at him. But he heard nothing. Outside the hay pile everything was quiet. Too quiet.  
  
Nagîthas stood still, towering over the hay pile and waiting for the small one to come out. When a long time passed and no sign of life came, she snorted and began removing the hay to see if there was anything below.  
  
***  
  
"I will help you," Záhovar said. She and Gothmog stood on the top of a stair leading down from the main gate of the Tower, discussing the events of the day. "But remember that you owe me two times now, for this event and for saving the life of your way too curious son."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Gothmog scratched his head. "Talkin' about son, have ye seen him? Should've been here by now."  
  
"Perhaps he stopped to look at the clouds? Isn't that what he used to do?"  
  
"Yeah..." Gothmog sighed. Then he noticed the scorn in Záhovar's voice. He turned towards her. "Tryin' to tell me he acts way too much like your old people?" Immediately he had to dodge Záhovar's sharp claws hissing past his cheek.  
  
"I have no people!" she hissed furiously.  
  
"Yeah yeah! I know," Gothmog said quietly.  
  
"You should be more careful, Gothmog," Záhovar said ominously. "I certainly do not have to help you as much as I have done, and I could easily retake your debt to me in blood instead."  
  
Gothmog took a step back. "N-n-now there, my Lad- I mean Lord. C-can't we make an agreement of some kind?" The ghost of a smile passed over Záhovar's pale face. "I said that I could, never that I actually would."  
  
Gothmog looked relieved. Záhovar lifted her head smelling the soft breeze, last descendant of the wind that blew along the shores in the far West, which passed through the cursed valley before disappearing into the Black Land over the mountains.  
  
"It will soon be morning. Come, let's go find that son of yours before he looses his mind completely among the clouds," she said and began walking down the stair.  
  
***  
  
Erishnak didn't want to get up. He wanted to stay hidden in that hay pile for the rest of his life. But when the huge black horse bit his tunic by the neck, lifted him into the air and began shaking the life into him, he didn't have much of a choice. Nagîthas snorted, blowing hot air inside Erishnak's tunic until he squealed, barely able to oppress the laughter. Nagîthas stopped blowing and put him down in the hay again.  
  
Erishnak sat still, now and then taking a quick glance upwards before lowering his gaze again. It felt almost like the horse expected something from him, but he did not know what. Suddenly the huge horse buffed her head into his chest, and he fell over. Nagîthas snorted wildly and tossed her head towards her back. Erishnak scratched his head. What did it want?  
  
Nagîthas snorted in frustration over the orcfoal's slow mind. She oppressed her anger and bit Erishnak's tunic by the neck, lifting him into the air again and then throwing him up onto her back. She had to toss him three times before the shaken orcling understood that he should grab her mane and climb up. Afterwards Erishnak lay on the huge horse's back, gasping for air.  
  
Suddenly a loud moan was heard. Erishnak's mentor tried to sit up, but fell down again with a shriek when he realised that several ribbons were broken after Nagîthas kick. Nagîthas rumbled and turned to finish her work, but Erishnak softly pulled her mane to stop her.  
  
"No, don't kill him!" he said. Nagîthas turned her head to look at the orcfoal. Was he mad, not wanting to kill the one who had caused him pain?  
  
"I mean, don't kill him yet. My-my father swore to kill him for me. I don't want to disappoint him."  
  
That figures. Nagîthas drew herself up, snorting in a condescending fashion. Then he turned abruptly and began to walk out of the stables. Erishnak who was not prepared for the horse turing so quickly, almost fell off but managed to pull himself up again.  
  
Outside the stables the huge black mare pranced for awhile. Then she tossed her head and began trotting up the stone avenue. Erishnak began to wonder if it really had been a good idea, climbing onto the back of an unknown creature like this. Then he was forced to leave all such thoughts behind, as Nagîthas let out a piercing whinny and fell into a mad gallop.  
  
Some corners away two snagas were pulling a cart filled with barrels of dried meat. They weren't at all prepared for a black horse skidding up onto the road at full speed some hundred feet away. Erishnak only got a glimpse of the snagas terrified looks as they threw themselves under the cart, just before Nagîthas leaped over it. He even managed to snatch a piece of dried meat as the horse went over it. He looked back, laughing out loud as the smaller orcs peeked out from beneath the cart. After he had gotten over the first fear at Nagîthas rush, he began to realise why humans kept horses. This was kind of a nice way of traveling. He straightened up a bit. Nagîthas noticed the change as took it as a sign to slow down to a more controlled gallop.  
  
Suddenly Záhovar stepped out from behind a corner,right in front of Nagîthas.  
  
"Stop!!" she called. Nagîthas stopped short, tossing Erishnak off her back and into the arms of Gothmog, who stepped out right after Záhovar. Gothmog was, however, not prepared for this and fell. Erishnak slowly got to his feet, laughing. But he stopped when noticing Gothmog's bitter look. He lowered his gaze, feeling ashamed. then he looked at Záhovar. As usual, no expression could be seen in her face, but she crossed her arms, drumming her fingers onto the armor. The gloves made a sinister sound. Being glared at from two directions made Erishnak feel like he had a huge load at his shoulders, and it suddenly appeared to him what he had done; stealing a High Officer's horse was no light crime.  
  
Záhovar was just about to lay hands on Erishnak to give him hios rightful punishment when Nagîthas bit Erishnak's neck and pulled him out of her gaze. The horse puffed Erishnak's shoulder, then tossed her head.  
  
"Erishnak," Gothmog growled. "What have you done now?"  
  
"I-I... It.. It wasn't.."  
  
"I do not think we need punish him," Záhovar said. "According to Nagîthas, this was not his fault." Gothmog gave her a look.  
  
"That horse can talk?"  
  
"No. But she can show."  
  
"That's right," Erishnak said. "It wasn't my fault. My Mast- err, I mean mentor, tried to kill me. She saved my life. He pointed at Nagîthas. "And she almost killed him, too. But I asked her to save him for you. Guess he's still down there. He wasn't really able to walk when I last saw him." Erishnak giggled at the memory, but quickly quieted down when he saw Gothmog's expression. Gothmog looked from his son to the horse and back again. Then he nodded.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"The stables."  
  
"Then let's go there. I've had more than enough of that bastard."  
  
***  
  
When they reached the stables, the mentor was being helped out by some snagas. Gothmog stopped in their way.  
  
"You," he pointed at the snagas, "get out of here now. And drop that garbage." They let go of the other orc, who landed with a yowl of pain.  
  
"Yeah, just go on. Squeal," Gothmog hissed. "You won't be able to do that when I'm finished with you." He grabbed the other orc's neck, pushing him up against the wall. the other squirmed, trying to get away.  
  
"Ye can't kill me! I was chosen by the elders! I, err..." He got sight of Záhovar. "My Lord! Please, tell 'im he can't kill me! Master.. please!"  
  
"My Lord," Gothmog said in a formal tone. "This infidel attempted to slay my spawn, my own flesh and blood. May I kill him, and claim my revenge?"  
  
"I agree to thy wish, Warlord. Kill him." She pulled a finely crafted dagger from her belt and handed it to Gothmog. He took it from her with a grateful bow. Then he quickly spun around, stabbing it into the mentor's heart. The other orc's yell of pain turned into a gurgle as Gothmog slowly twisted it.  
  
Erishnak was puzzled, and filled with conflicting emotions as his mentor's head dropped and body went limp. So this was it. Over. So fast... After all this time. He had never really been in such a close contact with death before. Of course he had seen people die, in this society people died every day. But he had never seen some one he had known die. And he had been a bit frightened when he saw the look on his father's face, and heard the blood chilling cry of victory. As they left the stables to get his stuff, he walked some paces behind, thinking about the whole thing.  
  
He noticed Záhovar slowing her walk to come up side by side with him.  
  
"You should not feel guilt for what you have seen," she said quietly. Erishnak looked up at her.  
  
"I've never seen someone die so close up before," he said.  
  
"The first time, perhaps, but not the last. Some day, if you are to live that long, you will be the one bringing death to others."  
  
"I don't think so. I'm too small..." Záhovar smirked.  
  
"Even the smallest person can change the course of the future. Be proud of who you are, instead of yearning for what you cannot be. It will not help anyway."  
  
***  
  
After Gothmog and Erishnak had got his things, and some other from his dead mentor, Záhovar invited them both to her room to tell them what had passed on the meeting with the Nazgûl, and what orders they had got.  
  
"Everything is set in Lug-Bûrz now. It is time to arm the troups and prepare for the first strike."  
  
"Where will it fall?"  
  
"Minas Tirith. That cursed city is the only barrier to the West, you will only have to tear that down, and the West will fall."  
  
"What about the horse men? And the Elves?"  
  
"Dol Guldur will take care of the Elves. The horse people is nothing to worry about, they are so weak after the battle at the Deep. They will not come."  
  
"Oh..."  
  
"What is this about, really?" Erishnak asked. Záhovar gave him a look.  
  
"The war, of course. The last war."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"You will both know more in time. And Gothmog, you will get clear orders once we are inside the Tath-Doraz*."  
  
"We will go to Lug-Burz?" Erishnak straightened up. Záhovar looked at him with an expression that, if one looked really close, almost could be taken for a smile.  
  
"Yes, you and Gothmog will come with me when I travel back. Gothmog can of course go alone, but I think it can be quite instructive for you to see the heart of this land."  
  
"When will we go?" Gothmog asked. He too was anxious about this journey.  
  
"The day after tomorrow. Some things must be prepared first."  
  
"And now," Gothmog said, seeing Erishnak yawn, "I think it's time to go to bed. We've got a long day ahead." With that they left Záhovar's study.  
  
***  
  
As Erishnak laid on the thin leather mattress that was his bed and listening to his father's loud snores, he thought on what Záhovar had said earlier.  
  
"Be proud of who you are, instead of yearning for what you cannot be," he whispered to the darkness. He smiled. It sounded good. 'I wish I could write, like the officers can,' he thought. 'Then I would write that down, and then forged an amulet or something and written it down onto it.' Soon he fell asleep, and dreamed of forging things, amulets, rings, magical jewels with great power.  
  
___________  
  
*Tath-Doraz - Tooth-Gate. Black Speech name for the Morannon, the Black Gates of Mordor. 


	6. Preparations

Traveling  
  
The next morning Erishnak awoke early. As he went out to the entrance of the cavern where the warlords and commanders of the army slept, he noticed it was blowing, a rare phenomenon in the well protected valley. It was still dark outside. As he watched the sky above, the wind parted the thick clouds for a moment. In the cut where the clouds parted, some tiny white dots could be seen. Erishnak stared, not believing his own eyes. Then suddenly a huge glowing orb came into sight. It... almost looked like... a face. Erishnak felt cold fear crawl up his spine. That was no Orcish face, not like anything he had ever seen before. And it watched him from that immense height, saw him, saw everything –  
  
Panic grasped him, and he turned and fled. He only reached a few paces though. Then the darkness took him.  
  
Záhovar slowly walked along the streets of the glowing city. "Come to think of it," she said to a statue, "it is quite beautiful here at night. Quiet and peaceful, even the glow of the walls adds a nice touch to it all. Not that those foolish Gondorians would notice, too busy weeping about how we stole their city and how evil and corrupted this land is." She leaped up the stairs to the roof of one of the mansions that once had belonged to a noble man, but now was slowly falling to dust, only the decomposing stone left.  
  
Well up on the roof, she continued her ranting, now speaking to a small gargoyle statue that stood as a guardian in a corner. "Frankly I do not understand why they persist in making war against the superiority. Look at the Rhûnlanders, and the Haradrim. They are serving Lug-Burz, and they are not complaining. It would give them an easier life too, leaving it to us to govern them. And they would not get their culture wiped out to the brink of extinction every age by trying to overthrow us."  
  
It felt like walking into an invisible wall of ice. Erishnak could not see what was standing in his way, and yet he could not pass. He felt a deadly cold seep into his body, and his limbs went numb, and stiff like frost bitten grass. A sharp, whistling hiss reached his ears. He knew he should scream, he wanted to, but the sound froze in his throat. Then suddenly something moved in front of him. Out from the impossible darkness in front of him came a hand. A terrible, white, shining hand. Two fingers was placed under his chin and pushed his head upwards. Strangely enough, it felt like they were clad in icy armour, but none could be seen.  
  
He was so frightened. He felt like he could die on the spot. He could hear his heartbeat like a drum in his ears. At first all was darkness as his gaze was forced upwards, then a glint of red was seen in the darkness. Then all of the hooded being became visible, except for whatever was inside the hood. Only those hypnotic red eyes could be seen, glowing in the dark. A living nightmare.  
  
Gothmog didn't know what had awakened him. Perhaps the fact that it was cold like in a grave. He grabbed his cloak that lay beside him. Then he noticed Erishnak's bed was empty. "Now where has that kid got to," he grumbled as he went out of bed. As he grabbed his boots he realised something was not right. It didn't smell right in there. After walking out of the room and towards the entrance he stopped short, staring. 'Nazgûl,' shot through his mind as he saw the dark fog and felt the stench of death in the dungeon.  
  
The being in front of Erishnak glanced over its shoulder, and then suddenly lost interest in him. It let him go and strode past him, and then the terror was over. He stood still, not able to move or speak for a long time. Then his limbs thawed, and he screamed, then fell forward. Gothmog caught him in his arms just before he reached the ground. He remained on his knees, trying to comfort the shaking, wailing orcling that pressed himself into his arms.  
  
Záhovar stopped short as a high-pitched scream echoed over the city. Of course, it could have been one of the slaves or prisoners being tortured, but somehow she did not think so. She quickened her pace towards where the scream had come from. As she reached the huge square at the entrances to the dungeons where the warlords and commanders slept, she noticed someone sitting in one of the entrances. As she came closer, she saw it was Gothmog hugging a whimpering Erishnak in his arms. Záhovar lifted an eyebrow in question.  
  
"T'was a ri... Nazgûl, my lady," Gothmog answered, looking down at Erishnak. "The poor thing ran straight into Him."  
  
Záhovar nodded. "Take him back in, before he catches a cold or something." Erishnak sneezed.  
  
"The best thing you can do, if bumping into a Nazgûl like that, is to run. As fast as you can, and as far as you can."  
  
"But he- it froze my legs, I couldn't move." Erishnak had calmed down a bit, now he sat sobbing on Gothmog's mattress listening to Záhovars admonitions. Záhovar had occupied Erishnak's bed, telling him about what to do if confronted by a superior.  
  
"That happened because you was too slow. And if you are forced to interact with them, keep your eyes on the ground. Never look at their eyes. Looking straight into the eyes of someone higher than you is recalcitrant. And show them respect, fall to your knees if possible."  
  
Gothmog shook his head. "He is so soft. Too soft. Do ye know of some way to make 'im stronger? Like a spell or something?"  
  
"I do," Záhovar answered. "But the spell you are talking about would not only take away his cowardice, but his personality and his soul as well. It would, litterally, turn him into an undead."  
  
Erishnak's eyes widened as he stared at Záhovar.  
  
"Uhm, I... think I'll take that request back," Gothmog said. Erishnak sighed of relief, and Záhovar smirked slightly. "I thought so."  
  
"I don't wanna be... an undead," Erishnak mumbled, yawning. Gothmog, who lied behind Erishnak, moved closer to the wall.  
  
"Go back to sleep, son. Mornin's still far away."  
  
Erishnak laid down beside Gothmog. Záhovar pulled the blanket out from behind her and tossed it to him.  
  
"Thanks," he said and rolled himself into it. Soon he was sleeping. Záhovar got up from the mattress.  
  
"Will ye not stay?"  
  
"No. I will return in the morning instead. We have a lot to do in the coming days." With that, she left, as silent as a shadow despite the armour.  
  
The next morning the whole city was in uproar. In all the streets and squares people were pulling carts, running with messages, soldiers were patroling and exercising. Erishnak ran to keep up with Gothmog, heading for the main tower. He didn't have to worry about getting lost in the crowd, however. Everyone that caught sight of Gothmog stepped at least two meter out of his way, and those who didn't was pushed aside by the others.  
  
They reached the stairway up to the tower gate, and began climbing it. In the middle Gothmog suddenly stopped, placing his palm on his forehead.  
  
"Father? You alright?" Erishnak asked.  
  
"Yeah," Gothmog said, sweating in pain. "Yeah, I'm alright. Let's go." They climbed the rest of the stairs in silence.  
  
Well inside the tower, Gothmog spotted something and told Erishnak to be quiet. Then he turned to an orc who stood guard at one of the doors.  
  
"Hey, Pradish! Come 'ere!" The orc guard came closer.  
  
"Greetings, M'lord," he said with a bow.  
  
"Come off it, Pradish. Ye know ye don't have to speak all high-an-mighty with me."  
  
"That's what happens to ye if ye're on duty as tower-guard. Bloody flower- speech gets stuck on yer tongue," he said and spat. Then he nodded towards Erishnak. "Who's the imp?"  
  
In the matter of a second, Pradish was pinned at the wall with Gothmog's hands around his throat.  
  
"Don't ye dare speak to my son like that, I dare you," Gothmog hissed.  
  
"I- I'm s... sorry!" he croaked. Gothmog let him go, and Pradish leant against the wall for a moment, coughing and gasping for air.  
  
"N-now I know how you became a warlord," he said, eyeing Gothmog suspiciously. Then he went over to Erishnak, who had watched the scenery with faint interest.  
  
"So, this is Gothmog's son, eh? Erishnak, right?" Pradish said, not really knowing what to say to an orcling.  
  
"Yes.." Erishnak replied shyly. Pradish patted his head. "Cute little fellow," he commented. 'Did he just call me cute? He called me cute!' Since Erishnak had no dagger with which to stab Pradish in the knee, he simply had to take the next best thing. Swiftly as a snake his head shot up, and his small but sharp teeth snapped around Pradish's hand. Pradish shouted in pain and pulled his hand away, looking in disbelief at Erishnak. Gothmog stared at them for a while, and then broke into hysterical laughter. Erishnak growled like a wolf cub, and then began to cough and spit, since Pradish's hand wasn't very clean.  
  
Pradish eyed his hand, whimpering. Then he turned his gaze to Gothmog, who was lying on the floor, still howling with laughter. Pradish pointed at him with his good hand.  
  
"Your son, is a farkin' brat!" he growled. Gothmog had himself somewhat under control, and got back on his feet, still laughing.  
  
After some time of explanations, mocking and throwing insults, they left Pradish to his duty, and continued into the tower. Gothmog laughed and patted Erishnak's shoulder.  
  
"That's my lad, eh? First time ye actually showed some backbone."  
  
"I'm not cute."  
  
"Of course ye're not. And I don't think Pradish thinks so anymore, heh."  
  
As they passed a corner, they suddenly stood eye to eye with Záhovar, who obviously had been spying on them and now had struck an ominous pose as a statue of impenetrable darkness, arms folded across her chest. Erishnak jumped backwards with a squeak as he almost bumped into her and landed on his back on the black floor. Gothmog grabbed the carved statue on the cornerstone to keep himself upright, gasping.  
  
"Holy Darkness and the Nine caverns of the Abyss, Záhovar! Please don't DO like that!"  
  
"Hm.." Záhovar replied. "When did you begin to curse like a High Officer? And what happened to 'my lord'?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry. My lord," Gothmog replied, grinning. Zàhovar motioned towards a door some paces away. "Shall we?"  
  
They entered the door, which led to the guest room where Záhovar lived during her stay at Dushgoi. Not as luxurious as her own room in Barad-Dûr, but still worlds above what the orcs had to suffice with. Gothmog had been there some times before, so he wasn't really impressed. But Erishnak slowly began to walk into the room, staring around him in awe. He looked closely on the paintings on the walls, of which some were of gondorian origin and had been saved when the city was taken by the Nazgûl. He looked at the chairs and the couches, all covered with velvet and other expensive materials. The tables, made of some rare wood that even felt soft to the touch. The bookshelf, filled with books in many different languages, made of the same wood as the table, and covered with carvings in intricate patterns.  
  
Gothmog and Záhovar watched him walk around and explore. Finally he reached the huge bed. He softly stroked the thick down comforter, and before gothmog had the time to tell him no to, he had thrown himself onto it. Purring like a cat, he grabbed a corner of the blanket and rolled himself into it, cuddling and rubbing himself against it. Gothmog gave Záhovar a nervous glance, she was smirking and had raised an eyebrow in that strange fashion of hers, which showed that she was amused. 'That must be the closest to a smile she can ever come,' Gothmog thought as he went to pull Erishnak out of the bed.  
  
"Gothmog."  
  
"Yes, my lord?"  
  
"Let the child play for a while. This is, after all, just a guest room. And besides, I doubt that he could break anything."  
  
Gothmog sighed and went back. No matter how much Záhovar stated that she felt no emotions, it was clear that she liked Erishnak, a lot. They went over to a low table and sat down in two comfortable armchairs. On the table stood a tray with some refreshments. Gothmog took a closer look on the jug, sniffing at its contents. Wine. Red wine.  
  
"Where is this from?" he asked Záhovar.  
  
"Dorwinion."  
  
Dorwinion wine. Gothmog's eyes became hungry. He loved wine, and the Dorwinion wine was the very best around. Most of that wine went straight to the High Officers winestore though, only the worst vintages was given to the orcs. He poured some into a glass, and sipped at it. Perfect.  
  
"Don't get drunk. It will be of little use if you can't sit in the saddle tomorrow," Záhovar said.  
  
"Mmm," Gothmog hummed while savouring the taste. Then he swallowed. "In the saddle?"  
  
"Yes, did you think you would be able to keep up with a horse all the way to Lug-Burz on foot? We must be swift, or the gondorians will spot us."  
  
"But I don't know how to-"  
  
"You do not have to either. You will get a Warg."  
  
"Oh..." Gothmog continued to sip at the wine. He always felt uneasy when Záhovar answered him before he had spoken, like she read his mind.  
  
Erishnak stayed in the soft bed, listening to Záhovar and Gothmog talking. He hugged one of the big pillows. Lug-Burz. He had only heard that name a few times before, mostly from his mentor, in terms like 'stand straight, or I'll throw ye into the dungeons of Lug-Burz!'. He had never really thought of it as a place before. Just a name among many other, like Gondor, or Harad, or Lo- Lothel- Lothelorrion.. He was never able to say that right. And now he was going there. 'I wonder what it looks like,' he thought. 'If it's green and white and glowing, like here in Dushgoi. Or perhaps black? A black mountain, filled with dungeons, like an ants' nest?'  
  
Gothmog tore his gaze from the bottom of the wine glass and glanced towards the bed.  
  
"Don't ye know of any way to strengthen him? Otherwise he'll never survive the coming battle."  
  
"Hm... I could speak to one of my lo- I mean friends, he could train him as an archer."  
  
"Archer? Well.. why not?" Then Gothmog's eyes narrowed. "Was you about to say 'lovers'?"  
  
"No. Absolutely not."  
  
"Oh. Okey. Sure, archer. Fine. Erishnak! Come 'ere. Ye're going to wear out those pillows if ye stay."  
  
Erishnak rolled out of the bed and down on the floor with a thump. When he got to his feet, he walked over to them and sat down in the couch.  
  
"How about we go over to the Warg stables, and let Gothmog get to know his new steed, shall we?" Záhovar said. Erishnak looked at Gothmog, who nodded slowly.  
  
The Warg stables was no real stables, more like a huge cavern with a huge iron door at its entrance. From inside could be heard the growls, howls and shouts from the Wargs and their masters. Záhovar and Erishnak stayed back as Gothmog went over to one of the Warg trainers and asked for his aimal. The trainer looked up, noticing Záhovar in the background and gave him a frightened nod. Then he and some of the other trainers disappeared into the cavern.  
  
"What are they going to do?"Erishnak asked Záhovar. She gave him a cold glance, then answered; "They will fetch the Warg that your father has been given by the Dark Lord."  
  
"Oh." Erishnak hesitated for a while, then asked; "What's a Warg?"  
  
"You will see."  
  
A lot of noise could be heard from inside, then the door flung open with a bang. The trainers came out, leading a huge, wolflike creature. The trainer reluctantly stepped up and gave the reins to Gothmog. As the Warg came closer, it seemed to shrink back, as if it was afraid. He stretched his hand out to pet it on the head. Then it attacked. Gothmog fell backwards as the Warg planted its paws up on his shoulders and pressed him to the ground. The trainer yelped and grabbed a whip to strike the Warg, but Záhovar stopped him.  
  
"Stop. Let us see if the warlord has the guts to fight back." Then she noticed Erishnak was gone.  
  
Erishnak cautiously walked closer to the huge animal, which was now sniffing at Gothmog's face. As it noticed him, it lifted its head and bared its sharp, yellow fangs.  
  
"Erishnak! Go back! I... I-I can h-handle this," Gothmog hissed. The Warg gave him one last glance, then it jumped off him, walked up to Erishnak and began to smell him thoroughly. Gothmog, who at first was happy that the beast got off him, now froze in terror as the monster pushed his son around, smelling and examining him.  
  
Wargs was a race created by the Dark Lord to serve as steeds for the Orcs. Mixing the blood of Orcs and wolves, also causing the instincts of the two species to be mixed. Wolves have very strong pack instincts, and no Orc would ever hurt an Orcling. Adult Wargs often killed each other, like Orcs did.  
  
But the Warg now recognised Erishnak's smell as that of a Warg cub. It suddenly stopped smelling him, gave a strange barking sound and jumped backwards. Then it fell down on its front elbows, tail high and waving in the air and the long black tongue hanging out from the corner of its mouth. Erishnak squatted down to pet the Warg. Then it licked him in the face. Erishnak pushed the Warg's head away, laughing as it continued licking him. Gothmog sounded as something had got stuck in his throat.  
  
Záhovar watched with an amused look. The trainer was on the verge of crying as his finest war steed was deliberately acting like a puppy. Gothmog brushed the dust of him and went up to Záhovar.  
  
"What the hell happened?" Gothmog asked as they were on their way back. "Why did it want me for a snack, but are only playing with Erishnak?"  
  
"It must be the mixed blood," Záhovar replied thoughtfully.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"One can never know the final effects when mixing the blood of two so different species. Not only the appearance and strength changes, but also the mind, and the instincts."  
  
"You know something of Warg breeding?"  
  
"Well... The Herald told me about it when he was developing the process."  
  
"Who's the Herald?" Erishnak asked.  
  
"The Herald of Mordor," Gothmog answered. "The liutenant and second-in- command of Lug-Burz. Second only to the Dark Lord himself."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Gothmog turned to Záhovar again. "You have... spoken to him?"  
  
"Yes, many times. I used to help him with his... experiments. It was he who created the Wargs first."  
  
"Oh... Yeah, I remember those." He shuddered. "Or I heard rumours about them, that is."  
  
They went on in silence.  
  
The rest of the day they used to pack the stuff they would need on the journey. That is, Gothmog packed. Erishnak, who owned nothing but his bedroll when he came to Gothmog, spent most of the day examining and dressing up in all the new clothes and stuff that he got. As they took a short pause, a snaga came in with a huge bundle, kneeling before Gothmog.  
  
"I was told t'bring this gift to'im," the snaga said, pointing at Erishnak.  
  
"Yes, why don't ya give it to him, then? Stop kneeling before me, and get on with it!" The snaga jumped to his feet and went over to Erishnak, who eyed him suspiciously. The snaga placed the bundle at his feet.  
  
"A gift," he said, then he turned and left. Erishnak began to paw the bundle. "It's hard," he said.  
  
"Why don't cha open it?"  
  
"What d'you think it is?"  
  
"I don't know," Gothmog said and smiled.  
  
On the inside Gothmog was puzzled. Who was caring enough to present an orcling with a gift? Except for Záhovar... Of course it was Záhovar. Although it wasn't like her at all, to give gifts to people. But then again, she was a female, it would be natural for her to have a mother's feelings towards Erishnak. It was the only possible explanation. At least the only one he wanted to think about.  
  
Erishnak pulled at the strings and the black and brown cloths that covered the bundle. Gothmog handed him a knife to cut it up. As he did, the cloths fell off. Erishnak gasped i awe as he lifted the metal parts out of the bundle. Gauntlets, shinguards... it was a small replica of Gothmog's armour!  
  
"My own armour! My own armour!!!" Erishnak yelled, jumping up and down in glee. Gothmog grinned.  
  
"Try it out, and see if it fits."  
  
Erishnak put the armour on, with some help from Gothmog. Now he walked around the room, a bit stiff.  
  
"It's a bit big," he said.  
  
"It only feels so 'cause ye're not used to it yet. And it's only good if it's big, then ye can use it longer, and grow in it," Gothmog said as he wondered again who might have given the armour to Erishnak.  
  
That morning, when Erishnak had fallen asleep, Gothmog met up with Záhovar on the roof of one of the stockrooms in the city.  
  
"Thanks," Gothmog said after a moment of silence. Záhovar frowned slightly.  
  
"For what?"  
  
"For... er... giving that armour to Erishnak."  
  
"What armour?"  
  
"Oh..." Gothmog frowned as well. "So.. it wasn't you? Who gave it to him, I mean?"  
  
"No... I thought you had already got him one. And you should know, I never give gifts to people."  
  
"Yeah, I know... Damn, who IS it then?!" Gothmog shouted, and began walking around on the roof. Záhovar looked at him.  
  
"Are you afraid that someone you do not know likes Erishnak?"  
  
"Well, no.." He stopped. "It's just... I've got a bad feeling about that gift."  
  
Záhovar chuckled, but coming from her it sounded ghostly, distant and cold. "You almost act like it was Poshnak who gave it to him."  
  
Gothmog got a disgusted expression. "Don't name him, please." He shuddered. "If that filthy bastard ever comes close to my son-"  
  
"Speaking of Poshnak, he is going to come with us to Lug-Burz."  
  
"What?! No!" A haunted look came into Gothmog's eyes as he looked down. "Fuck."

* * *

All that is told about the Herald (or the Mouth of Sauron as he is better known as) is made up by myself. Nothing, except what you can find in the books, is fact. 


	7. Journey to the Dark

No more incidents occurred during the night. The next morning, Gothmog and Erishnak donned armour, lifted their backpacks and went up to the Warg stables. The warg was obviously happy to see them, because upon seeing Erishnak it began jumping around so wildly that the trainer had great difficulties holding it, and was thrown around like a glove. When all parts had calmed down, they mounted and went to the stables to meet up with Záhovar. She was already waiting for them, and as they came into sight Nagíthas reared and shrieked.  
  
"Shall we, then?" Záhovar turned Nagîthas towards the main gate.  
  
"Where you goin'?" Gothmog asked puzzled.  
  
"To the gate of course. We are going to Lug-Burz, remember?" she said.  
  
"I got new orders this very morning. We were to assemble outside the dungeons when we were ready to go," Gothmog said. Záhovar slowly turned to face him, her face now even paler than before, if possible.  
  
"We... are going through the... dungeons?"  
  
"Yes..." he replied. She turned back and slowly up beside him again as they headed for the dungeons. Erishnak mostly looked down on his own hands, now and then glancing at the officer's face. She was... shaking.  
  
As they approached the entrance they found the other officers waiting for them. There were even one of the Nazgûl. Erishnak lowered his gaze, shivering as the cold, merciless stare swept over him and fastened on Záhovar. He still had horrible visions of the earlier accident.  
  
Shadow seemed to seep out of Záhovar's armour and engulf her as she slowly dismounted and strode up to the Ringwraith. When she came to a spot right in front of the Nazgûl she halted, all the time followed by its gaze. With a swift, fluent movement she turned towards him -or it- and bowed.  
  
"What took thee so long, Záhovar?" it asked with a hiss.  
  
"I was not informed of these new orders, my Lord."  
  
The wraith turned to one of the snagas standing nearby.  
  
"Slave," it hissed. The snaga ran up and threw himself onto the ground in front of its black steel boots. "Find the messenger who was to bring the Dark Lord's orders to all officers. Have him killed." The snaga nodded, got to his feet and ran off. The Nazgûl turned towards the company again. "Let us leave. The Dark Lord will not be merciful to those who come in late."  
  
In the meantime, Gothmog and Erishnak had dismounted as well. The group had split up into two. Gothmog was talking to some of the commanders in his own group, and Erishnak took a swift look around, eyeing the other orcs up and down. One of the commanders in the other group caught his eye, and leered at him. That smile somehow gave him the feeling of many small slippery worms crawling on his skin, and he shuddered. The commander, who had seen him shuddering, chuckled and said something to the others. Then he left the group, took a swift worried glance in Gothmog's direction, then came over to Erishnak and knelt at his side.  
  
"Well, hello there," the commander said, placing his hand on Erishnak's back. Now Erishnak saw closely what had caught his eye at first; the strange thing the commander had on his helmet. Except from a horrible scar that literally split his face in two, he had an old skull fastened on a long point on the top of his helmet.  
  
Erishnak had been so fascinated with the horrible decoration on his helmet that he hadn't really noticed the orc that wore it. The commander licked his lips in a discreet manner, gazing up and down his body with an almost worshipping look in his eyes. Erishnak tried to take a small step back, but found himself prevented from that kind of manoeuvre by a strong hand on the small of his back. The commander looked up at him with something that vaguely resembled a reassuring smile on his face.  
  
"You're Gothmog's cub, aren't ya?"  
  
"Yes.."  
  
"Heheh. I haven't seen ya since ye were, oh, about this big," he said and showed with his hand. "You've really grown."  
  
"Maybe..." Erishnak blushed and his face went dark when the commander glanced at his body again.  
  
The commander cocked his head. "You're a shy one, eh?"  
  
"Maybe... What's that thing on your helmet?"  
  
"Heh, it's an Elf head. Got it in a fierce battle."  
  
"Oh... uhm.. Isn't it, uh... a bit... old?"  
  
The commander laughed. "Perhaps.. Maybe I should get a new one. It was nice when it was fresh, you know. All shining with fresh blood, face twisted in pain... Now ye can't even see what gender it is."  
  
Erishnak wrinkled his nose. "Yuck.."  
  
The commander laughed at his disgusted expression. Then he looked at Erishnak's armour and smiled.  
  
"So, I see you got your armour," He said. "I had to bribe the snaga to keep him from stealing it. Heh, my moneybag still hurts.." Erishnak gave him a puzzled look.  
  
"You gave me this?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Oh.. I thought father gave it.."  
  
"Too expensive, little one. Say whatever ye want about yer father, but he can't handle money."  
  
"Oh... hm.. thanks. Y- you're not angry 'cause I didn't thank you before?"  
  
Gothmog laughed at a joke when someone suddenly poked his in the ribbons.  
  
"What the- "he began, but one of the others hushed him, pointing to the right with his thumb. Gothmog slowly turned his eyes in that direction, and caught sight of.. 'Oh shit, not him! Not Poshnak,' he thought as he leapt towards them.  
  
"No, not at all," the commander said. Then he suddenly lifted his hand and placed the fingertips on Erishnak's lank hair. Slowly he pulled the fingers downward, over Erishnak's brow, his nose, his lips... then he carefully tried to insert a finger into his mouth. Erishnak tried to squirm away, but it felt like someone held him rock steady. He felt as though someone grabbed his hair, pulled it downwards and pulled his chin upwards. His eyelids grew heavy, and he began opening his mouth... when something hit him hard from behind.  
  
Pradish had managed to grab Erishnak out of the way, just before Gothmog dove down on Poshnak's throat yelling in fury. Now they both sat on the ground, watching Gothmog and Poshnak fight like rabid Wargs, trying to rip each other's throats out, before Záhovar came and parted them.  
  
"I'll kill ya!! I kill ya if ya touch my son again!!!" Gothmog roared.  
  
"Come off it!" Poshnak replied just as loudly. "That cub will never become a proper warrior anyway, with a father like you! Give him to me, I'll make a man out of him!" he sneered.  
  
"Oh no, not a man!" one of the orcs from Poshnak's group jeered, and all of them broke into loud scornful laughter.  
  
"Well, not a man then... But at least he'll become useful. Just like you, remember?" Poshnak said, leering at Gothmog, who roared again and tried to reach him.  
  
"Silence!! Both of you," Záhovar shouted. "Commander Poshnak, you go back to your group and stay there! Gothmog, you too! If I see anyone from the groups talk to each other again during this trip, you will all be punished! Now move!"  
  
The groups began to walk in through the huge opening in the mountainside. Záhovar gathered Nagíthas' reins and led her down into the cave.  
  
The first part of the tunnel was lit up by torches. Here it was quite dry, and in the side caverns most soldiers of the army lived. As they went deeper and deeper in under the mountain, however, sight became restricted by the darkness that seemed to creep up from every shadow. Soon, it was pitch black around them. Orcs could see in the dark, but this unlight was too much even for their trained eyes. They lit some of the torches and went on.  
  
In here, the burrowed tunnel ended, and was continued by the natural caverns created by the eruptions and tumult of Orodruin. Not even the orcs that lived here knew how far these caverns stretched under the earth, or what kind of creatures lived here. Some said that one could walk from here all the way to the black Chasm in the Misty Mountains. But whoever wanted to try was insane. Everyone had heard of the Terror that slept in the Chasm, and the monster that guarded its western gate. Whatever it was, both creatures had arisen from the Deep when those stupid beard-heads had delved too deep in there. Even the great spider in the pass above Dushgoi was said to have come from the Deep. No one wanted to awake any such creature on this trip, so the group went on in silence, only whispering to each other in the dark.  
  
Now and again the glimmer of eyes could be seen in the darkness beyond the torchlight, and at some times strange sounds echoed up from the unreal depths. Mostly it was only soft chirps from some rodent. Only once did a rolling roar echo along the cavern walls.  
  
The way was marked out with white paint on the stalagmites, so they would not get lost. But it was still a nightmare to Záhovar. She hated, and feared this place where she had been kept when she was first captured. They had tied her hands and feet, then placed her on the floor of a cavern like this one. By the time they came to bring her back, he had been covered in spider webs, with tiny spiders crawling all over her. Since then she could not stand being underground. She had to use all her self-control to keep herself from turning and running madly back to the surface, or to shake like a leaf. She had even, when Gothmog had come up from behind and lightly tapped her shoulder guard to get her attention, punched him in the face before she saw who it was.  
  
Erishnak spent most of his time close to Gothmog, only making short trips on his own. When they halted to rest, he played 'warg and prey' with the rodents and huge insects in the caverns. The rodents were too fast for him, but he had managed to catch a big, slow bug with a black shell and yellow spots. The bug however, had spewed some disgusting, itching liquid into his face, and then disappeared beneath a rock. Erishnak took his revenge after Gothmog had washed the sticky liquid out of his face, and pushed the bug into a canyon where a thundering river made its way through the darkness, laughing evilly when it was swept away by the water.  
  
Gothmog mostly kept close to the warg. This place was not really one that he liked, and he could not do much when having to press a cloth to his bleeding nose, which Záhovar had punched the first day down here. She was really strong, much stronger than one would think when seeing her lithe body. He didn't know why she was so nervous down here, and he would definitely not ask her either. He mostly spent his time talking with the other officers, watching Erishnak play, or stare hatefully at Poshnak whenever he caught sight of him.  
  
The two-day journey went on without accidents. On the last day they made camp and rested in the cavern just inside the opening.  
  
"Wooow, look at this!"  
  
Erishnak had strayed some meters away from the camp, exploring the cavern where they had made camp in the light of the torches. Now he returned, holding a huge mushroom in his hands. At first, it seemed like any normal fungus, but as Erishnak placed himself between it and the torchlight, it began to glow with a cold, icy blue light.  
  
"Nice. Never seen anything like it," Gothmog said as Erishnak brought the mushroom back to him.  
  
"Looks like an undead," one of the soldiers remarked.  
  
"Yeah, right! An undead mushroom," Pradish said, laughing. "Ye think it wanders around eatin' other mushrooms' brains as well?" All the soldiers around the fire laughed.  
  
"Come to think of it," another of the soldiers said silently when the laughter had died down, "it looks a bit like Záhovar's eyes." He quickly turned his head in Záhovar's direction, hoping that she didn't hear him. But she did not move, still sitting on the rock at the darker end of the cavern. Gothmog followed the other orc's gaze. It was difficult to spot her in the darkness, still enshrouded in the black mist as she was. Only her blue eyes could be seen in the darkness. He shook his head slightly and turned back towards the warm fire.  
  
After some hours they began preparing for the last part of the journey. Erishnak was all over the place, jumping around in exitement, all the while carrying the glowing mushroom under his arm. Poshnak appeared from nowhere while Gothmog was helping Erishnak putting his armour on, and whispered some words into Gothmog's ear. Erishnak did not hear the words, but seconds after, Gothmog and Poshnak was fighting again. Erishnak stared for some moments, then he ran to find Záhovar. He found her close to the gate, along with the Nazgûl.  
  
"Záhovar!! Záhovar!" he called. Záhovar looked at him and nodded. She bowed to the wraith and came up to him.  
  
"Th-they're fighting-"  
  
"I know. They've probably woken up every creature within hearing range down in the caverns."  
  
"Why do they always fight?" he asked her as they went towards the sound. She only gave him an enigmatic glance. "You don't want to know. Not yet."  
  
"I will not break this fight again," Záhovar shouted as they reached the area before the gate. "You," she said and pointed at Gothmog's soldiers, "and you," she pointed at Poshnak's troop, "You will tear those two apart."  
  
When the soldiers did as she commanded, Záhovar sat down upon a stone.  
  
"Will I be like that when I become an adult?" Erishnak asked her.  
  
"Let's hope not." The soldiers pulled up Gothmog and Poshnak and dropped them in front of her.  
  
"Now then," Záhovar said as she eyed them both. "As I told you two before, I have had more than enough of this. Poshnak, if you do think that I have lost eyesight in the darkness, think again!"  
  
Poshnak sat up. "You're disqualified because Gothmog is your friend! You always pick on me, never on him!" A weak smile appeared on his thin lips. "Why would he care if his lad becomes a boyfucker or not? It won't change his personality y'know."  
  
"Shut up," Gothmog hissed.  
  
"Be quiet," Záhovar said. "By the way, I thought you might want to know, your precious Praktâsh can count himself as one of my followers now."  
  
Poshnak's ears drooped. "Praktâsh? Has he..? Is he..?"  
  
"No, but he has befriended my attendant."  
  
"Damn."  
  
"Literally."  
  
Since Orcs have black blood, it would be natural that their faces turn black instead of red when they blush. Moria 


	8. From Darkness Below to Darkness Within

Finally they ventured out into the open air again. The air in Mordor was not very fresh, smelling of sulphur and dust, but in Záhovar's mind it was ten times better than the damp tunnel air. Obviously the Nazgûl was glad about being out of the tunnel and back on the safe side of the mountains again, too. He hissed loudly, then he screamed. Far off an answering scream from the direction of Barad-Dûr signified the presence of another Nazgûl.  
  
Záhovar mounted Nagíthas, then she noticed that Gothmog seemed to be in some kind of trouble. When she came closer she saw that he was trying to make Erishnak let go of his arm, which he had clung hard to when the Nazgûl screamed.  
  
"Bloody weakling," one of the uruk soldiers from Gothmog's group muttered. Gothmog reached for his sword, but Záhovar hindered him.  
  
"Do you have anything to complain about?" she asked the soldier with a cold, threatening voice.  
  
"W-well..." The soldier became nervous. "If.. eh, if... If ye promise th- that he won't kill me.." he stammered, looking at Gothmog. Záhovar gave him a glance.  
  
"He will not harm you if your complaints are well based."  
  
"If so..." the soldier said, becoming a bit braver. "That small one, he's a spoiled weakling."  
  
"What makes you say so?" Gothmog growled.  
  
"Ye're way too protective, letting him sit up there, afraid that he's gonna trip an' fall if ye let him down. How ye think he's gonna build up his muscles, if ye ain't allowin' him to use them? How ye think he's gonna become a warrior if ye ain't lettin' him fight his own battles?"  
  
"Oh, and I suppose you agree with Poshnak, don't you? You advise me to give my son to him, don't you?"  
  
"No," the soldier replied, swallowing as he saw the bloodlust in Gothmog's eyes. "I only suggest, well, let him walk on his own legs a bit. Let him find his own strength, instead of being your shadow all the time."  
  
"Excluded," Gothmog replied. "Never."  
  
Some of the other soldiers had closed in now, watching the scene with growing interest. Erishnak had been looking down on his own hands during the conversation. First he had been on the verge of crying because they called him a spoiled weakling, and ashamed because he knew it was true. Then a tiny spark of pride had been lit up in his chest. He lifted his head and turned to look at Gothmog.  
  
"You think I am a weakling?" he asked his father with that whimpering voice he knew his father could not resist. Now was the first time he used it on purpose. Gothmog looked down at him.  
  
"Of- of course not, son!" he answered, giving the soldier a murderous glance. "Of course not!"  
  
Erishnak swung his leg over the Warg's neck. Gothmog grabbed him to stop him from falling.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
Erishnak gave his hands a resentful look. "Let me go."  
  
"But what are you doing?!"  
  
"I'm gonna walk the rest of the way."  
  
"Ye can't do that! It's too far!"  
  
Erishnak looked at Gothmog with a stubborn look. "Wanna bet on it?" Gothmog let him go with an astounded look. Erishnak jumped down, first looking around a bit shyly. Then he straightened up and began to march at the Warg's side, his head high and a stern look on his face. Gothmog looked around suspiciously to see if anyone dared to comment on the fact that he had just lost a contest of wills to a cub. But the soldiers of his group only grinned approvingly.  
  
"That's more like it," the soldier who had commented on Erishnak being spoiled said.  
  
"Now I recognise Gothmog's son," another one said. Gothmog gave Záhovar a helpless look, but she only watched Erishnak with an amused look.  
  
"He had to do it some time," she said as she noticed him looking at her. "You cannot keep him a child forever, and you are not going to lose him because of this."  
  
"Eh, I suppose not," Gothmog replied.  
  
They went on. After a few hours they reached the end of the mountain road.  
  
"Finally," Záhovar exclaimed. "Gorgoroth."  
  
"Wow," Erishnak said as he saw the huge black plain. The ground trembled slightly as Orodruin had an eruption and spewed out molten stone and fire up into the dark sky.  
  
"What is that?" he asked Gothmog and pointed at a glowing red spot in the darkness on the other side of the burning mountain.  
  
"That's the Eye," Gothmog said, his voice full of reverence. "The Eye of the Dark Lord, located in the top of Lug-Burz."  
  
Erishnak felt a bit awkward as he saw the huge distance from where they were to the Dark Tower. The road went down to the foot of Ephel Dúath where a crossroad was located, splitting the road up in four. From there one road went straight up north to the Black Gate. One went south, and one west to where they stood. The last road went past the burning mountain, past a bridge over a huge chasm and up to the gates of the Dark Tower. Along the road a river of fire from the mountain rushed, and fell into the chasm.  
  
"I'm not sure I can make this," Erishnak said.  
  
"Ye can ride the last bit if ye want to," Gothmog replied. "Ye don't have to be a warrior all the time."  
  
After running down the slope to the feet of the mountain, Erishnak was exhausted, and Gothmog let him up into the saddle again. As they went past a pile of rocks that the slaves had built up as they cleansed the road from the lava that covered it after each eruption, Záhovar halted Nagíthas.  
  
"What is it?" Gothmog asked as he saw Záhovar dismount.  
  
"I thought I saw something. Wait here," she said as she leaped of the road and began climbing the rock pile. The Nazgûl had called the rest of the company to a halt, and now it came up to see what was going on.  
  
"I just got a sudden urge to gather pretty stones, master," Záhovar replied. "You do not have to wait for us, we can catch up with you." The Nazgûl stared at her for a moment, then it left without a sound, and the company left them. Gothmog looked after them for a while, then he turned to stare at her.  
  
"Stones? You risked a punishment to gather stones?! Are... are you sure you didn't hit your head in the darkness?"  
  
"This is not a usual stone," she said when she returned to the road and showed them what she had found. The emerald she held in her hand had the size and shape of an egg. First it looked like a normal emerald, but as she held it up it began to glow with an eerie glow.  
  
"It looks almost like the walls in Dushgoi," Erishnak said, his voice full with awe.  
  
"Indeed," Záhovar replied. "Now perhaps you understand why I lied to him. Officially, all gems, jewellery and such that are found in Mordor goes to the Dark Lord. But if no one knows it's here, they cannot take it." She mounted again. "Come. Let us catch up with the rest of the group."  
  
They reached the group in front of the bridge. Now it was night, only a few slaves and soldiers passed the bridge as they went over. Erishnak leaned over to peek over the edge, and saw the burning river of lava far below, and he could feel the heat that radiated up from the stones and cliffs around them.  
  
"What happens if one falls into there?" he asked Záhovar.  
  
"Into the river? The heat is so strong, that he would be fried even before he reached the river itself. So do not try that, it is not a very pleasant ending." Erishnak laughed nervously. Gothmog looked like he was about to throw up.  
  
After passing the bridge, they passed an area where the earth really twisted in agony. Here was huge pools and streams of boiling mud, the air reeked with sulphur and was difficult to breathe. The lava around the road had stiffened into strange shapes, at one place it had stiffened into a great vault that stretched over the road.  
  
Just as they reached the gate, Orodruin had a huge eruption. The ground shook beneath their feet as they passed the bridge over the lava-filled moat and came into the tower. It was close to dawn in the outside world now, and most of the inhabitants of the Tower rested.  
  
"Have you ever been here?" Erishnak asked Gothmog as the gates behind them closed with a thunder that echoed through the gigantic archway.  
  
"A few times," he replied, "but it was long ago now." They led the Warg into the stables, which were placed on the left side of the archway. On the inside the stables were split up, one part for horses, one for Wargs, and one for other creatures. That part of the stables had an own exit, high up on the inner wall. Erishnak never saw that part, but he heard some strange croaking sounds from in there.  
  
Afterwards, Gothmog and Erishnak was showed to their room by a snaga. It was comfortable, quite big, and it even had a small table in a corner, made of wood and iron. Záhovar had been away at some errand, now she appeared in the doorway.  
  
"The first meeting will begin tonight," she said. "Gothmog, you and the other warlords are to assemble outside the throne room after dinner."  
  
"Will ye be there?"  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
"...Right. C'mon son," Gothmog said and tousled Erishnak's hair. "Let's go find some food. Ye hungry?"  
  
"Yeah!" As they went out the door, Záhovar left without a word. This was the first time Erishnak actually saw with his own eyes how Záhovar's contours faded as the shadows in the corners began to gather and clung to her like black spiderweb. Erishnak began to shiver.  
  
Gothmog brought Erishnak to one of the better taverns in the city beneath the Black Tower. The tables and chairs were better treated here, but he still took great care when he sat down on a bench, making sure it would not crumble to dust like that one in Dushgoi. Gothmog went over to the counter to argue with the barkeeper about the prices. Erishnak took his time watching the people in the tavern. They had no sign, nothing that displayed their ranking, but their behavior showed how high they were. Here, one could clearly see the picking order among the officers of Mordor's army. The bigger and stronger, the higher in ranking. And everyone lower than you had to move. People came and went constantly, and there was a lot of noise, shouting and laughter.  
  
Gothmog returned with a tray, on which were two jugs and two plates with meat and some mixture that Erishnak did not recognise.  
  
"Where are the High Officers?" Erishnak asked as he began to eat. "Don't they need to eat?"  
  
"Sure they do, but they do not come here. They have their own place, up in the Tower. They never mingle with us orcs, they think themselves too high an' mighty for that."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Suddenly the noise stopped, and a murmur was heard from closer to the door. All guests in the tavern moved aside, so that a path was cleared. Some officers who had earlier thrown away some lower commanders from the table they sat at now quickly got up, offering the table to the newcomers. Erishnak's eyes widened. He had seen the fine clothes that Záhovar wore, made of velvet and silk, but he had never seen orcs wear such clothes before. The newcomers were shorter than many of the officers, they carried no weapons or armour, but they moved in such a way that one could clearly see that these were of noble heritage.  
  
"Who are those?" Erishnak whispered to Gothmog as the newcomers sat down at the table next to them.  
  
"They're Gagnaz, helpers, servants of the Top Ones."  
  
"Top Ones?"  
  
"Another word for the High Officers. You'll hear it quite often here. Now, keep eating and stop staring at those. It's better if they don't take notice." Erishnak did as he was told, but he couldn't help but throwing glances now and then.  
  
"They must have a nice job," he said silently. "No fighting, no suffering, only following their masters wherever they go."  
  
"I can assure ye, it's not that nice. Sure, it gives a lot of privileges, but they have to endure the loathing of the Top Ones all their lives, and do their bidding. As soon as they make a mistake, they're skinned and thrown to the Wargs."  
  
"Hm."  
  
Záhovar was exhausted, but she could not rest yet. She wondered where her attendants were, but they had probably not heard about her return yet, which meant she would have to go down to the kitchen herself and get food.  
  
After having dinner and resting for some hours, she went down to the smithy, hoping to fit the stone into a necklace or the like. The smithy was empty when she arrived, but the fire was heated up already, so she began working immediately.  
  
She felt His presence even before He entered. Záhovar spun around, keeping her eyes down, and knelt onto the dusty, filthy floor. The Dark Lord sounded slightly surprised, as if He hadn't expected to find her here, when He asked her when she had arrived.  
  
"We came this very morning, my Lord."  
  
"And how come you did not report to me immediately at your arrival?"  
  
"I... There was nothing to report, my Lord. I did not find it necessary to bother Thee with nothing."  
  
"That does not matter. I want to know where I have my officers. And you are still one of my officers, are you not?"  
  
"Y-yes, my Lord." Now Záhovar was shaking with fear down on the floor. She had made a mistake, and one small mistake was often enough to anger her Master if one was of low ranking among the officers. And this was no small mistake. For a long moment, all was silent. Then a soft hissing sound was heard, like choked laughter. For a moment she was puzzled. Laughter? But no. The Dark Lord had no feelings, how could a being without feelings laugh, or even feel amusement? 'It must've come from the fire,' she thought.  
  
"Arise," He said. As Záhovar got up, the Dark Lord walked over to the table where she had been working and picked up the emerald. He eyed it closely.  
  
"What were you doing with this?"  
  
"I found it out on the plain. I thought that I could fit it into a necklace." She was worried that He might remember that, by law, this gem was His, and she had by keeping this to herself, stolen it from Him. But He made no remark on this.  
  
"With these tools?" He said as He picked up a small hammer.  
  
"Well... Yes."  
  
"Useless." He threw it away. Then He took some other strange-looking hammers and tools from a box below the table, that she had not noticed before. Záhovar watched, amazed, as the Dark Lord began working the stone over thoroughly, creating a number of small fazes on its surface. The simple fact that He knew how to shape a jewel was enough to make Záhovar forget all manners. As He continued working, she glanced from the stone, to His face. Nothing could be seen, save the silhouette, dulled by the black mist that enshrouded His being. Only His eyes could be seen properly, glowing with a red fire that now and then flickered with yellow flames. 'Almost like my own,' Záhovar thought. 'Only mine are blue.'  
  
"There," He said suddenly. Záhovar jumped and quickly looked down again. He lifted His hands towards her face, showing her the stone. Now it was shaped like a green-glowing eight-pointed star, fitted into a beautiful necklace. Where He had got the chain, she had no idea.  
  
"How-" she began, then she minded her manners and went quiet, staring at the jewel in awe but not making any move. After some time the Dark Lord sighed and began to move closer. Záhovar moved backwards, until He ordered her to stand still. He opened the chain and placed it around her neck. Then He took a step back to admire His work, both the necklace and the one who wore it.  
  
"Záhovar," He said silently. He stood there for a long time, only watching her; she could feel His gaze move over her body. He made no move or sound, but she could feel Him urging her closer. She took a few steps in His direction, and since He had been close even before, she was now totally engulfed by the darkness surrounding Him. It was not cold or uncomfortable, it was warm, no hot, and she could feel it touching her. She felt nothing solid like arms or hands, only this darkness controlled by His will, holding and caressing her. She realised with a chock that she was at His mercy now; with a single thought he could press the darkness closer and choke her to death. But nothing happened.  
  
And then He suddenly let her go. She stumbled backwards as He turned away from her. She saw the glimpse of a red eye as He gave her a last glance, then He left without a word.  
  
When they left the tavern, Gothmog and Erishnak went back to their room. Erishnak was overjoyed, because here they had both got thick, soft mattresses and leather pillows to sleep on. Erishnak rolled around on his mattress while Gothmog sat down with a concerned look. Erishnak noticed this.  
  
"What is it?" he asked and stopped rolling.  
  
"Eh, I got a little trouble," Gothmog replied. "I have to visit the war council later, only I don't know where to leave ye when I go."  
  
"Why not leave me here?"  
  
"I don't know... What if ye get into trouble? These people here don't know who ye are."  
  
"Would I get into trouble only by staying in here?"  
  
"Uhm... Would ye really stay in here? All the time?"  
  
"Weeelll..." Erishnak replied evasively. Gothmog laughed at his dreaming look.  
  
"Alright then, ye can stay, as long as ye don't go bite people's fingers. An' if someone messes with ye, run. Preferably back here."  
  
"Right! So I can bite people's fingers as long as I get back here!"  
  
"What? No, ye-"Gothmog stopped talking and gave Erishnak a frowning look. Erishnak imitated his frown in a ridiculous way. Gothmog began laughing and shook his head. Then he reached into his backpack.  
  
"I guess I shouldn't give ye this while ye are in that kind'o mood, but... oh well, ye can't do anything worse than killing someone," he said and gave Erishnak a long dagger with a curved blade.  
  
"If ye cut yer bedroll or clothes with that thing, I'll stand over ye with a whip and force ye to stitch it back together," Gothmog said with a smile as he left.  
  
Erishnak examined and played with the dagger for a while. He drew his thumb over the edge to see if it was sharp, as he had seen Gothmog do with his sword. As he did so, he realised it was sharp when he cut his thumb. He watched as a drop of black blood slid down over his hand.  
  
After a while Erishnak was tired of staring at the same walls. He got to his feet, donned the dagger and scabbard, and peeked out of the door, out into the hall. It was empty. He sneaked out and walked down the hall the same way as they had come earlier.  
  
'This entire place seems abandoned,' he thought as he peeked around a corner down another corridor. Suddenly he heard voices and footsteps approaching. Erishnak hid behind a statue. After a few moments two dark shapes became visible. They were not orcs, that much was clear. They were too straight and tall, and their voices too melodic. Their armour was different as well. Erishnak tried to hold his breath as they came closer, and it seemed like they were going to pass without noticing him. But one of them suddenly stopped right in front of the statue and turned towards it.  
  
"Come forth! There is no use in trying to hide there," one of the warriors called. When Erishnak hesitated, they stepped up behind the statue and pulled him out into the torchlight. Then they dropped him onto the floor.  
  
"Who are you?" one of them asked.  
  
"N-no one," Erishnak replied.  
  
"Answer correctly!"  
  
"Ju-just an orcling."  
  
"Your number?"  
  
"Number?"  
  
"Yes, number! All orcs in Barad-Dûr have a number! What is your? Answer!"  
  
"I-I-I h-have no n-number.." Erishnak whimpered. The human warriors looked at each other.  
  
"What are you doing here anyway?" One of them asked anew. "Orc children ane not permitted to be in the main tower."  
  
"I live here."  
  
Both warriors laughed out loud. Erishnak covered his ears, their laughter was so sharp it hurt his ears. Suddenly both stopped laughing, grabbed his arms and began to carry him away.  
  
"Wh-what are you doing?? Let me gooo!!" Erishnak cried and tried to break loose. If they took him out of the tower he might not find his way back in again! And nobody knew him here, there was no one he could ask for help.  
  
The orc guards at the main gate laughed as the humans threw Erishnak out of the tower. He tumbled down the stairs and landed in a heap at the end. He heard the humans tell the guards to make sure he didn't get back in again. He snivelled as he got up. He didn't even have time to use his knife... And what was he to do now? He knew nobody here... except Poshnak. He could find Poshnak, he knew what to do. But as Erishnak looked around, he realised how hopeless that quest was. This place was huge, Poshnak could be anywhere.. 'And since he's an officer, he probably went to that meeting where father went,' Erishnak thought as he walked away into a street. He spent a long time just walking around, looking at the people in the streets. Most of them were slaves, and not all of them were orcs. He saw many humans, most of them had dark skin like orcs, but some of them were pale as maggots, with yellow hair and eyes that looked like the colour had been washed out of them. But most of these humans was dirty, and they seemed tired.  
  
All the time he had to jump out of the way of carts and wagons. 'Now I know how a snaga must feel,' he thought as he was roughly pushed out of the way by a huge orc soldier. Some of the orcs here were bigger than in Dushgoi, they were darker and they even looked more dangerous.  
  
Erishnak looked at the people in the big street as he went into an alley. Suddenly he bumped into someone. A loud curse was heard as the orc turned and grabbed the neck of his tunic, pulling Erishnak closer.  
  
"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" the orc asked. Erishnak just whimpered, covering his face with his hands.  
  
"Wait Praktâsh, it's just a cub," another voice, softer, said from behind. Someone disentangled the orc's hand from Erishnak's tunic and put him down on the ground again. Erishnak curled into a ball.  
  
"Bloody cub, should watch where he step," the first orc, the one called Praktâsh, growled. Then he muttered something unintelligible.  
  
"Shut up," The other one said. Erishnak's hands were removed from his face, and that "someone" put his hand under his chin, pushing his face upwards.  
  
"Come on, look at us. Danger's over for the moment."  
  
Erishnak slowly opened his eyes, looking at the one who had helped him. He was still afraid, but when he caught sight of the other orc he stared. The orc was... white! Even paler than the humans he saw before, almost even paler than Záhovar! And like Záhovar, this orc had black hair. But Záhovar's skin and hair was blue-tinted, this orc's skin and hair was more greyish. He had red eyes and pointy ears that were placed 90 degrees out from his head, making his triangular face look broader than it was. But except from his appearance, there was still something that differed him from other orcs. He was... softer, he seemed softer, like a person who would not be able to hurt anyone, even if he wanted to. He was strong, well trained, but definitely not a soldier. Erishnak wondered how he could survive here. But then he noticed the clothes that the white orc was wearing. It was one of the Gagnaz!  
  
"What's your name, little one?" The white orc asked.  
  
"Erishnak. A-and yours?"  
  
"I'm Graznikh, and that's Praktâsh, my friend," the white orc said and nodded towards the other orc, who now leaned against the wall, picking his teeth with one of his sharp nails. As Graznikh nodded at him, he lifted an eyebrow and gave them a supercilious smile. Graznikh shook his head.  
  
"Don't mind him," he said to Erishnak. "He's always like that. But aren't you a bit far from home?"  
  
"I am. The guards threw me out, and I can't get back in again."  
  
"Get back in? Where?"  
  
"Into the tower," he said and pointed. "I came here with my father, he's a warlord from Dushgoi. He went to a meeting, and I wanted to take a walk and see things, but then those humans came and threw me out. They didn't even listen to me."  
  
"Oh... I see. Well, lucky you bumped into us then," Graznikh said with a grin. "We can get you back in again."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Stop smiling like that," Praktâsh said to Graznikh. "I'm supposed to be the smug superior-looking brat here." Graznikh just laughed at him.  
  
"But I am the leader. Anyway, I happen to have a good friend in there, who's given orders to the guards to let me and Praktâsh in whenever we want. The guards can't stop us, so if you go with us, you'll get in. And if they try to stop us we have the right to kill them, so I don't think they'll be givin' us trouble."  
  
"What's your father's name?" Graznikh asked Erishnak as they went back to the main tower.  
  
"Gothmog."  
  
"Gothmog? Oh yeah, Záhovar has spoken about him at some point."  
  
"You know Záhovar??"  
  
"Yes, she's my l-... ahm, friend of mine." Graznikh gave Praktâsh a poisonous look. "Not a word."  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't think about it," he replied, covering his mouth to keep from laughing. Erishnak gave him a strange look.  
  
"What's wrong with him?"  
  
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Praktâsh, shut up."  
  
They went up the stairs that led to the Tower gate. The guards eyed Graznikh and Praktâsh, and then let them pass. But as Erishnak tried to pass, they stopped him.  
  
"Hold it there, ya little spy!"  
  
Graznikh came back to the gate. "Is there any problem?"  
  
"W-well.. No, Shakh."  
  
"Why do you stop him? Didn't you see he came here with us?" Praktâsh interposed.  
  
"Pardon Shakh, but he... was here before, we got orders from-"  
  
"From who?"  
  
The guard broke into cold sweat of fear. "F-f-f-f-from a-a... o-one of t- the ambassad-dors f-from the C-capital of Rhûn..."  
  
"So, you prefer following orders from visitors, and oppose us, instead of following the orders of the High Officers and save your life." Graznikh sighed, and grabbed the spear that the other guard was holding, and offered it to Praktâsh.  
  
"After you."  
  
"Oh no, after you."  
  
"Ladies first."  
  
"Shut up. We can both kill him."  
  
"How?"  
  
"We just ask one of the sorcerers to resurrect him after you killed him, and then we can kill him again."  
  
"Nice! You mean we can kill him, resurrect him and kill him again, over and over until we've had enough of it?"  
  
"Yeah! And it will hurt just as much each time for him."  
  
Erishnak couldn't believe his ears, and the guard was now shaking.  
  
"Please! Please! I'm sorry! You may pass! You may pass you may pass you may pass..." the guard repeated the phrase as he slowly sank to his knees, fainted.  
  
After resting for a while, Záhovar went down to the library to see if she could find out something more about that gem she had found. In the library of Barad-Dûr was gathered almost all knowledge from Harad, Khând, Rhûn and the Far East and South. 'Surely there must be some information,' she thought as she entered into the huge library.  
  
Then she stopped short, noticing something stir at the far end of the hall. For a moment it almost looked like the Dark Lord, but the two long thorns on each side of the helmet, and the richly embroidered robes told another tale. Yet here was a man nearly as frightening as the Dark Lord himself was.  
  
The person seemed not to have noticed her, but then suddenly he closed the book he was holding with a snap, and went over to her, looming over her. Záhovar bowed low before him.  
  
"Záhovar," he said slowly. "So you have returned. Finally." Záhovar nodded, hit by the force of his voice. If the voices of the Nazgûl went up like a shrill cry, and the voice of the Dark Lord echoed like a distant thunder, then this man's voice had terror in its own way. It was deep, soft and sensual, like the deepest notes on a harp. He did own a sword, but as most said, the power of the Herald of Mordor was not in the strength of steel, but the force of his own voice.  
  
"I must admit I have missed you," the Herald continued, "Even this short period." A slight smile appeared on his mouth. "No one dares to argue with me when you are gone, and those few who dare are not interested in arguing. The journey went well?"  
  
"It did. But it was not much of a journey, I was only gone for ten days."  
  
"Few of us have the privilege to be away even so short a time. I do not even remember the last time I was away from Barad-Dûr."  
  
"But then you are not much for traveling."  
  
"Of course not. Why spend time on dusty roads when you can live a comfortable life here? I prefer to let the adventures come to me instead. But why have you come here?"  
  
"I was hoping to find some information on an interesting stone I found on Gorgoroth," she said and showed him the emerald. The Herald took it in his hand, examining it.  
  
"Indeed a rare artifact. But who polished it? Do you have such skills?"  
  
She shook her head. "No. And you would not believe me if I told you."  
  
"How so? Was it an orc?"  
  
"No. It was the Dark Lord himself."  
  
The Herald had certain difficulties keeping control of his expressions. "Who?"  
  
"You heard me. I did not know that He had such skills, but obviously He knew what He was doing."  
  
"Well... According to common knowledge, He did spend time in Eregion when it still existed. Although I do not believe that He achieved his skills there. But, who knows? He never speaks of His past."  
  
"Hmm." Záhovar picked a book and began searching in it.  
  
After several hours and a mountain of books later, they still had found nothing about the strange emerald. Záhovar was sitting in an armchair, sleepily browsing through a heavy book. The Herald sighed.  
  
"So many books, and still nothing. It has never happened to me before."  
  
"Well.. We have at least searched an eighth of the library."  
  
Suddenly Gothmog appeared in the doorway. He brightened up as he caught sight of Záhovar and began walking towards her, but when he saw the Herald he stumbled and stopped.  
  
"I-I'm sorry," he said, bowed and quickly began walking out again.  
  
"No, Gothmog," Záhovar said. "You may come forth." He hesitated for a moment, then he gathered strength and came closer.  
  
"What do you wish?" Záhovar asked.  
  
"Ha-have you seen my son, M'la- my Lord? I, eh... I can't find him."  
  
"Have you searched your room?"  
  
"Yes, but he wasn't there."  
  
Záhovar turned towards the Herald.  
  
"I am sorry my Lord, but I must leave. I-"  
  
"Of course, you may go."  
  
"Thank you." She bowed before him and left, with Gothmog following.

* * *

Gagnaz – Helpers

Shakh – Lord


	9. The Wolf's Head

The Herald followed Záhovar with unseen eyes as she left the library, Gothmog following her with his gaze fixed on the floor. He couldn't understand why she showed so much interest in the lesser creatures, other than for -scientific- purposes. He turned back to the books again, trying not to think more of the weakness that his pupil showed.

As they crossed a corner into an empty hallway, Záhovar abruptly stopped and turned towards Gothmog.

"What do you believe the Herald thinks of this? What does he think, when a lowly orc, be you warlord or not, comes in, interrupting a meeting, and asking me if I know where his -son- is?"

She spoke with a low, steady voice, but the chill in it gave Gothmog the shivers. She placed her hand, covered with a taloned gauntlet, below his chin, forcing him to look into a pair of eyes that chilled the soul. "We are not in Dushgoi anymore, warlord. I thought you remembered the schemes and intrigues that you got involved in the last time you were here?"

Gothmog shifted nervously. It wasn't easy to forget the event that had bound his life to Záhovar, placing him in debt of blood to her. "So you won't help me find him then," he whispered. She let go of his chin and turned, continuing down the hall.

"Come."

* * *

Erishnak was sleeping on the skin mattress in Gothmog's room. Graznikh and Praktâsh had followed him back to his room after helping him back into the building, in case they should meet more humans, and after that, they had stayed a bit longer. Graznikh kept his distance, but Praktâsh, the black Uruk, seemed very curious. He poured questions over Erishnak, about his life, childhood, relations, interests and a number of other things, until Graznikh ripped off a part of Praktâsh's tunic and stuffed his mouth with it. As they continued arguing Erishnak got tired, and fell asleep.

Now they just sat there, watching him sleep.

"Do I look like that when I sleep?" Praktâsh asked.

"Nah. You look uglier."

"Shut up."

"Shh, don't wake him up."

Suddenly a cold breeze went through the room, which was strange since they were deep inside the tower, far from both the surface and the gates. Erishnak mumbled and moved in his sleep. Praktâsh was just about to place a blanket over him when Záhovar showed up in the doorway, closely followed by Gothmog.

"I should have known," she muttered as she caught sight of Praktâsh and Graznikh. "Gothmog, check all places twice the next time before you call for me."

Gothmog came into the room and gave the other orcs a suspicious glance. "Who are you?"

"Gagnaz," Graznikh replied. "We belong to the Master here," he said, bowing towards Záhovar.

Záhovar stared down at Graznikh for a long time, he met the Officer's gaze with an ingratiating look. Suddenly he stood up.

"We are leaving," Záhovar exclaimed and went back into the darkness outside. Graznikh rose and followed her without a word.

At first, Gothmog just looked confused. He then walked over to the sleeping Erishnak, who was watched over by the black Uruk.

"Ya wanna know what happened?" Praktâsh asked. Gothmog nodded slowly, and Praktâsh quietly told him about the events earlier.

"I, erh... owe you a lot, Shakh," Gothmog said afterwards. "For bringing me cub back."

Praktâsh grinned.  
"No need for that Warlord, I already have enough people 'owing' me things. This little fellow, for example," he said, brushing a strand of hair back from Erishnak's face.

"Wait.. ye're not gonna put him in debt, will ye? I can pay you back if that's what you want, but don't-" he went quiet as Praktâsh held a hand up.

"His debt to me won't be payed back in that way. All I want," he whispered, brushing a finger along Erishnak's ear with a hungry look, "is a promise." Then he got up and left, giving Gothmog a dirty smile.

As the sound of Praktâsh's footsteps died out in the hallway, Gothmog sat down at Erishnak's side, twisting a corner of the blanket in his hand. As he had caught a glimpse of the black Uruk's face when he left, Gothmog had gotten a flashback of the last time he had caught Poshnak drooling over his son. 'Damn boy,' he thought helplessly. 'What've ye gotten yerself into now?'

* * *

"I can't understand how ye can keep that disgusting, filthy, dirty... creature at yer side!" Gothmog roared as he came storming into Záhovar's room. Záhovar, who was sitting at a table reading some scrolls, quickly looked up as Gothmog entered.

"What do you mean?"

"Praktâsh, that's who I mean," he rumbled and told her what had happened the night before. "Can I kill him?" he asked when he had finished. "I won't let him touch my son again!"

Záhovar sighed. "What has he done now?" Gothmog explained and told her about the events of last night.

"You will not kill Praktâsh. He would not harm Erishnak. I believe he tricked you."

"Tricked me? What do ye mean?"

"Praktâsh is a prankster, and he is strong. He knows that should anyone attack him, then he can defend himself quite easily. Because of that, he lacks any hint of respect. He has probably heard about the fight going on between you and Poshnak, And so he wanted to play."

Gothmog muttered something.

"What?"

"I said; that's no joking matter."

"To Praktâsh, everything's a joking matter. Simply ignore him, like everyone else." Gothmog muttered something about twisting people's necks.

"Why don't you kill the reason for all this instead? Poshnak is the one who gave you all these troubles from the beginning."

Gothmog made a choking sound. "If I knew I had permission to kill him, I would've done so long ago!" He went silent, then he sighed. "Záhovar, I... I can't let Erishnak become one of them, I just can't! I can't... let him go through the same things as I've done..."

"Who is Erishnak?"

"What?"

"Who is he?"

"Wha... He's my son!"

"What more?"

"He's an orcling... a youngster who can't fend for himself!"

"Why don't you put some trust in him? You can't keep him a child forever, and you cannot always be there when he gets into trouble. Let him stand on his own legs for a while and face the world on his own conditions. I do not believe you will regret it. And even if he -should- get into Poshnak's web, why don't you let him get out of it himself?"

Gothmog hit his fist into a table. "Not if I can prevent it," he growled hotly.

"Hm. I will speak to Praktâsh, he will not do anything without my say-so. But you should loosen your grip on him, unless you want him to become the weakling you think of him to be. Let him learn the hard way, the way that make us strong. You survived, if Erishnak truly are of your blood then he will too."

* * *

They stayed in Barad-dûr for many weeks. Gothmog was gone most of the time, leaving Erishnak alone. Graznikh and Praktâsh was often avaliable though, so he spent most of his time with them. When Graznikh heard that his training had been on hiatus since he left Dushgoi, he immediately brought Erishnak down to the armory. Erishnak got a scimitar, and then they went to the cavern where the soldiers were trained to start practicing. At first the Uruks and other soldiers had been sneering at the cub, but when they saw him and Graznikh in action most of them broke their own practice to watch them. Soon a crowd had assembled, cheering and hooting. As the evening came, Erishnak fell asleep on his bed, too tired to even take his boots off.

"There's something I don't understand," Erishnak said one day as he and Záhovar watched the Burning Mountain from a balcony a few levels up in the main Tower. "Everyone here call you 'Lord Záhovar'. Why is that? Aren't you a female?"

"A good question," she answered. "Most call me Lord, because they do not know that I am a female. Most of the orc females here in Lug-burz are used only for breeding, and nothing else. The others are soldiers, just like the males. Most orc soldiers have never heard of females, they do not know what it is. As for the humans, they do know what females are. But in their culture, the females are often lower in ranking than the males, in their eyes they can never reach the ranking of a High Officer. So I am called Lord, to reduce the hostility and loathing of the humans, and keep the orcs from going mad."

"But.. I'm an orc, and I know what you are, but I'm still not mad... or am I?"

"You have yet to come of age and see the differences between males and females... If you live that long."

Erishnak went silent. 'I will live that long,' he thought. 'I won't die. I will live forever!'

Suddenly, he heard a horn sounding from below. The distant sound of a marching army was heard. He went over to the side of the balcony where Záhovar stood and peered over the edge. The height made him a bit dizzy, but from up here, he could easily see the army, a slow river that poured out from the gates below, shimmering from the countless torches.

"What are we waiting for, really?" he asked. "We've been here for so long, and nothing seems to be happening, unless these armies that goes away to the west every day."

"Up here, nothing happens. But the army you see here is just a drop of rain in the huge storm that our Master prepares to unleash upon the western lands. Up north, closer to the Black Gates, many of the soldiers of this land has made camp, and many of them will leave and reassemble in Dushgoi before the first strike falls."

Erishnak looked to the north. Nothing could be seen of the huge encampment Záhovar had spoken of, but he could see that the sky was clearer there, brighter in some strange way, much like he had seen so many times from the walls of Dushgoi when he was smaller.

"Will we ever return to Dushgoi?"

"Of course. Everyone knows that it is on the Ruin City of Osgiliath that the first strike will fall, and we will probably be in the first line."

At that moment, Erishnak heard something stir behind them. He turned around, and caught sight of a strange, terrifying being. Too tall to be a human, with a strange, huge helmet and long black robes with intricate red patterns. The being didn't take notice of him, and went straight over to Záhovar, who didn't seem to have noticed the being behind her. Just as it slowly reached out a pale, bony hand to touch her neck, she moved her head slightly.

"Greetings, my Lord," she said.

"Záhovar," the being said reproachingly. "I thought you had learned not to speak to a higher Officer before being spoken to."

"And now you have come to punish me for it?" she said confidently as she turned.

"Not this time. Come, I have something to show you. My greatest work, in all means, is almost finished."

Záhovar moved a hand in Erishnak's direction. "Can this... orcling, come as well?"

The being's head moved slightly towards him. He didn't understand how the being could see through what seemed like solid iron, but it was obvious that it -could- see, because its mouth twisted in a disgusted way.

"I do not understand why you show so much affection for these lesser creatures, Záhovar. They should be kept on shorter leash."

"Herald, I thought we had already finished the discussion on this matter," Záhovar said. The being that Záhovar referred to as Herald got a stern look, at least it could be taken for that since not much of his face, except for the mouth, could be seen below the helmet.

"Are you getting soft, Záhovar? Are you losing your strength?"

Záhovar's face twisted in anger. "I am NOT losing anything of my strength! I keep these dorûti as my slaves because I want to, and for no other reason!"

Upon hearing this, Erishnak could not stay quiet any longer. "But Záhovar, I thou-"

"Be silent!" she snapped. Erishnak fell to his knees in terror, for what he had seen in Záhovar's eyes the short second when their eyes met, was his own death. Why was she angry? What had he done? Záhovar turned back to the Herald.

"Slave?" Erishnak heard the Herald ask mockingly.

"I will punish him later. He will not be uppish again after a taste of the whip you gave me." Erishnak felt like his blood froze in his veins. Whip?

"So, why this good mood?" Záhovar asked. "What have you come up with this time?"

"A true masterpiece. In all means this is my greatest work ever. Truly, the bare sight of it will scare the western people to death, and if that doesn't work, its bite will kill the rest of them," he declared with a sadistic grin. Záhovar allowed herself to smile a bit, a smile that never reached her eyes.

"Meet me in the armory in a few days, and I will show it to you." With that, the Herald left. Záhovar turned and slowly went over to Erishnak, who still lay shaking like a leaf on the cold stone floor.

"Get up." No response.

"Get - up!" He moved slightly, but then lay still again. A choked sobbing could be heard. She fell to her knees in front of him.

"Erishnak, look at me," she said in the kindest voice she could procure. Still no answer. "Erishnak, listen to me. I did this for your own sake. If I hadn't shouted, then the Herald would have punished you himself, and believe me you do not wish to get under his pleasant care."

"But..." Erishnak sobbed, "You s-said th-that you would... w-whip me..." Záhovar put her hand under his chin and lifted Erishnak's face upwards so he faced her.

"I lied."

Erishnak looked at her for a long time, as if he didn't believe her. Then he did something he'd never done before. He suddenly got up, placed his arms around her neck and nuzzled his tearwet face into the corner of her neck. Erishnak didn't know why he did it. Somehow he just knew that it felt good, and that he should do it. So he hugged her.

Záhovar froze. Few living beings, especially no orcling, had ever gone this close to her before for as long as she could remember, not unpunished. And never to seek comfort! Erishnak sobbed a few more times, then he slowly fell asleep, oblivious of the raging emotions he caused his unlikely protector.

* * *

"Stupid bastard. Stupid, stupid bastard!"

Graznikh paced to and fro in his and Praktâsh's room while Praktâsh, lying on his bed, followed his raging friend's movements.

"Why are you so upset? It's nothing wrong with that."

"Why I am upset? Why am I upset? You broke the promise! I thought we were agreed on this matter! We're supposed to protect the critter, not use him for our own pleasures!"

Praktâsh smiled a bit. "What if he wants it as well then?" Graznikh gave him a disgusted look. "Praktâsh, he's a cub."

The smile disappeared from Praktâsh's mouth and was replaced by a troubled look.

"What do you mean with that? I'm a cub too, and you never see me protesting, do you?" Graznikh stared at him for a moment, then he sighed. "There are some differences between black Uruks and regular Orcs, Praktâsh. This is one of them. Orc cubs aren't fully developed when they're born, they have to grow for some years before they can even lift a sword, and even longer before they get the kind of needs you're referring to." Praktâsh thought for a moment before replying. "So... you mean they're like... complete weaklings when they're newborn? Wait... you mean that I have to wait for years before I can... Oh, shit!" Praktâsh looked like he was about to cry. "You're kidding me, right?"

Graznikh shook his head.

"But... you think Poshnak know about this?" Praktâsh asked. "Oh, I'm sure he does," Graznikh replied. "But he hates Gothmog, and he knows Gothmog hates him as well, and he probably drools over Erishnak just to make Gothmog mad. He won't care if Erishnak gets hurt in the process." Praktâsh began growling. "I could kill him. I swear, if he hurts Erishnak, I -will- kill him, and make it hurt too."

Graznikh began scratching his ear with a nervous look. His long time of duty in Záhovar's presence had teached him to sense Záhovar's rather sublime telepathic ability. But that didn't mean that he liked the times when he felt his mistress scrape against his mind. "I should go to Záhovar. Right now." Praktâsh got to his feet at the same time as Graznikh. "I come with you." Graznikh eyed him. "Yeah, you should come too."

* * *

A few days later, Záhovar summoned them all to a narrow corridor near the huge forge below the Tower. The noise of the forge echoed from the doorway in the other edge of the corridor.

"Had I followed the Herald's orders properly, then I should have gone here alone. However, I will let you come with me, if I can trust you to be completely silent for as long as we are in the Herald's presence. Can I trust you?" They all nodded. "Good. Follow me." They walked down through the corridor to the doorway, and into the forge. Here the noise was even louder, mixed with the stench of the fires, and all the slaves that worked there made the place look like an ants' nest. Erishnak looked around while keeping a tight grip onto Gothmog's swordbelt, to keep from getting lost in the huge smithy.

The weapon forge consisted of a huge shaft in the middle, and along the walls of the shaft there was terraces where one could walk between the levels of the forge. Záhovar and her following were on the fifth level, and walked along the winding terraces and tunnels to finally reach the bottom. This level consisted of a huge cave, split up in two parts by gigantic gates, one at the entrance and one closer to the back of the cave. This was where all the machines of war were designed and made, the workshop of the Mouth of Sauron, Lieutenant and Herald of the Black Tower. The Herald himself stood alone beside a small door that led to the second part of the cave with an excited smile. Záhovar reminded herself that he had never been very good at concealing emotions.

Erishnak never got used to the looks of the Herald, although he had seen him some times before. The strange helmet that covered all features, that almost hysterical grin which seemed to be his usual expression, the fact that he towered several feet over both Uruks and Záhovar... all this freaked him out. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the ground, but realised that if that... being would try something, few would be able to stop him.

"Always these creatures at your feet, Záhovar," the Herald said as Záhovar greeted him. "Surely there must be more stimulating company than these? You've kept them long now, do you never tire of them?"

"No my Lord," she replied. "They can be a pest, but they do not speak up against me as some other races might." She threw a hateful glance towards the humans standing in a chattering crowd at the far wall. The Herald shrugged. "You continue as you have always done. But I did not send after you to still my need for small talk." With that, he turned and walked over to the small door in the gate. A snaga opened the door and bowed as Záhovar and the other orcs followed the Herald inside. As the door closed behind them, the Herald lifted his hand upwards. "Behold!"

A huge wooden stand on wheels towered before them. In huge iron chains, a battering ram in the shape of a wolf hung. It was very detailed, and the wolf's jaws was opened into a raging grin.

"Had I not known that you hate the word, then I would have said that it is a true piece of art," Záhovar said approvingly. "It is... I lack of words. If this do not bestow fear and panic in the enemy lines, then I do not know what would."

"Oh, they will flee in fear when they hear the rumour of it," the Herald exclaimed. "For this is Grond."

Záhovar looked at him. "You named it after... the legendary Hammer of the Underworld?"

"Oh, I did not name it. The Great Eye himself did, he said that he wished to honour his.. I did not catch what word he used. Something about... 'Táno', I think. But we all know the tellings. Shaped like a wolf and named after the weapon used by..." He went silent, and Záhovar nodded slowly. She knew. Speaking the name of The Great Shadow was nothing one did lightly, and it was forbidden in Mordor.

Erishnak simply stared. Never before had he seen a construction this huge.

"It's so huge," he whispered to Praktâsh after he had squatted down to hear what Erishnak wanted.

"Too huge. What kind of monsters will be able to pull that thing? Dragons?"

"Well.. I don't think they will use dragons. They're too unreliable. Graznikh comes from east of Rhûn, he knows that better than I do."

"I'll tell you later," Graznikh whispered. "When they're done here."

As they walked back from the smithy, Erishnak leaped onto Graznikh with thousands of questions.

"You said you'd tell me when we were done in the smithy; what kind of beasts will pull that ram?"

Well... Nórkhan-beasts or mûmakil. Probably Nórkhans, they're easier to command."

"Nórkhans, what's that?"

"The plains of Nórkhan is a huge high plateau far into the East. There lives many strange creatures, including Manjaki, the last population of dragons and these Nórkhan-beasts. Those beasts are huge, Praktâsh would only reach up to half of their height, and they have a huge thick horn pointing forward from the forehead down to the muzzle and one and a half length more. Their muzzles are hard and bony, almost like a beak. They are grass eaters, not dangerous unless you start hacking away on them with an axe or something. But who wouldn't get angry if that happened."

"Cool.. They can pull this thing?"

"Heheh. If I took ten Nórkhans and chained them to the gate, and made them angry enough to start running, they would probably pull down the entire Black Gate, with towers and everything."

"What are those other creatures you named?"

"Manjaki?"

"Yeah."

"All right... Manjaki are extremely rare. You can travel back and forth over the Nórkhan plains for years without ever spotting a single manjak. Most of the sightings has been done at night time, some people claim that they are some kind of magical lunar beings. And some times they might seem so... They sing at full moon."

"They sing?"

"Yeah. Like... like some mix between a swan and a wolf, full of sorrow and longing for something that was lost. But you've never heard swans or wolves, have you? Then I don't think I can-"

The silence in the archway was abruptly broken by a vibrating howl. Záhovar had thrown back her head and let hear a strange, hypnotizing sound. Erishnak could almost -feel- the sound in the air around him, the feeling of moonlight, clear air, frost on the ground and eternal space, freedom without any boundaries or cares. And it was chill, so cold, full of sadness and sorrow, longing for some companion that was lost before time begun. Then it ended, as abruptly as it had begun. Graznikh smiled.

"That was a good interpretation," he said. "Almost felt real for a moment."

"Almost?" Praktâsh gasped. "To me it felt real enough."

"Why all the sadness?" Erishnak asked.

"Well... No one really knows," Graznikh said. "But there is a theory. There are almost no elves in the north east, and whenever an elf comes up onto the plains, the manjaki seems to know it and gather like vultures on a carcass." A loud snort was heard from Záhovar. She seemed quite furious.

"I have had more than enough of those manjak beasts," she proclaimed and left them.

"Oh, great, I forgot," Graznikh said to himself.

"Forgot what?" Praktâsh gave him a worried look.

"Oh, nothing, it's just... that's a secret between me and her really, and she would kill me if I spread it. Not that I don't trust you, but an oath's an oath."

Tell me more!" Erishnak begged. "What do they look like? Have you ever seen one?" Graznikh grinned. "Not seen, but heard. With Záhovar, when I first traveled along with the other warriors from my home in the East to Mordor to join the army. Záhovar led the expedition, and t he Manjaki seemed to follow our every footstep for some reason, singing every night. But we never saw them. But from what I've heard and seen on pictures, the head and neck is that of a swan, the legs and feet of a very slender deer, and the body is like a very starved dog. They have long wispy manes and tails and are said to be faster than the wind. I've heard some old legends of a people in a forgotten kingdom in the far East, long long ago, who had managed to tame Manjaki, using them to pull their wagons. But I don't believe in that, they're impossible to catch, nothing can outrun them."

"Oh..."

"There are more to them than I know, perhaps you can find something in the library if you want to know more."

"But I can't read..."

"What? Great... I'll teach you that too when I have the time."

Gothmog mumbled something unintelligible. Graznikh turned to look at him.

"What?"

"Hm... Ye really think that's a good idea? Reading an' that stuff makes ye soft, I don't want Erishnak to be all soft..." He trailed off as he saw Praktâsh's expression. Graznikh smirked. "Do I look soft to you? Does lord Záhovar seem soft? Books can be really useful sometimes. You might even find some interesting things about elves in the library, heheh." He glanced at Praktâsh, who hummed silently as he tried to oppress a grin. "Praktâsh, shut up." The Uruk looked at him innocently.

"What've I done?"

"We've already figured out what kind of books you read, and we're NOT interested in discussing them, thank you." Praktâsh gave him a friendly smile and fluttered his long black eyelashes. Graznikh shuddered in disgust.

* * *

Záhovar stormed through the hallway on the way to her room. Graznikh, such a fool he was! She had almost forgotten about that accursed journey, and now he slandered about it like... like... well, whatever! It was common knowledge that manjaki were drawn to elves, and when they had followed her every step over the plains... She had used every ounce of her strength and power to keep them at bay, and to kill as many as possible, but the humans had been suspicious none the less. Luckily, it was never spread to Lug-bûrz, Graznikh being the only one who still remembered it except for herself.

She sighed, and it was then she realised that the air was cold. Too cold. She turned and bowed to the Nazgûl who had been standing hidden in the shadows. One glance at the handle of the Nazgûl's sword told her that it was Khamûl, the lieutenant of Dol Guldur. He was rarely seen in Lug-bûrz, staying most of his time in Mirkwood. The fact that he was here now meant that something big was going to happen.

"It is soon time," the wraith hissed. "The Dark Lord wishes to see thee... Thee, and that warlord of yours."

"Ah, yes. Gothmog. When?"

"He will send word when it is time." Záhovar was confused. She had thought that He had sent Khamûl as messenger, but obviously, He hadn't. But the Nazgûl had no will of their own, they were mere extensions of the Dark Lord's will, why did Khamûl tell her this?

* * *

Some hours later when the world began to calm down, Záhovar slowly strolled down the huge collonade that led to the throne room. As she passed one of the narrower archways, however, she stopped shortly. Someone was plucking on a harp in a delicate melody, although it was silent and a bit uncertain, as if the player was holding the harp for the first time in many years.

Záhovar spun around and walked back to the archway. She wanted to know who the fool was that dared to openly play an elvish tune on an elvish instrument this close to the Dark Lord's chambers. And who it could be that had the skill to do so. As she reached around the first corner, she spotted Praktâsh sitting with his back leaned onto a pillar with a small black harp in his knee. He had his armour on, and his sword laid carelessly thrown on the floor at his feet. If the circumstances had been different and Záhovar had known anything of elven culture, she probably would have laughed out loud at the mocking sight; it looked like a negative image of an elven bard. This time, however, that was not to be. For the first time in countless years, Záhovar lost her emotionless mask and stared at him with mouth and eyes wide open. "What are you doing!"

Praktâsh didn't seem to hear, concentrated on the harp as he was, a look of calm contentment covering his rough Uruk features. She spoke again, this time with more determination in her voice. Now Praktâsh twitched and he lifted his head, looking wildly around before spotting her in the dim light at the corner.

"Oh.. Greetings, Shakh! What can I do for ya?"

"Well... I heard the music and became a little... curious about who it was playing, in here of all places," she said, nodding towards the harp. Praktâsh got a pondering look, then he looked down at the harp and his eyes widened, as if he saw it for the first time.

"That's odd," he muttered, scratching his head. "How did this end up here?"

"I was just about to ask you the same," Záhovar replied, leaning against the corner pillar.

"Well... I was just, y'know, roaming, then I found this in a dusty old storage corner. No one was about, so I thought I could go to a quiet place and, well... try playin' a bit. Didn't know I would get stuck here for so long," he said, now and then throwing nervous glances at the harp. "You... won't tell anyone of this, will ya?"

"I will not. But it is interesting indeed. Either that thing there is magical in nature, or you have some secret talents." Záhovar had gotten control over her expressions again, now she arched one of the corners of her mouth into the smallest of smiles. Praktâsh looked like he was about to throw the instrument into a pit and run until his legs couldn't carry him any longer. "Well, that's sooo sick!" he exclaimed.

"That it might be magical?"

He looked at her. "No, that I might have a talent. As far as I'm concerned, I don't have any talents." He paused for a while, the slightest darkening of his skin telling Záhovar that he blushed. "Well, I might be good at some things... but certainly not that!" He looked meekly at her. "Or... y'think so?"

Záhovar shrugged, the metal in her armour creaking with every movement. Praktâsh swallowed. "I think I'll go put this back where I found it," he said with a nervous smile. "No worries, I won't go touching that thing again. Promise!"

With that he ran away. Záhovar sighed and picked up the heavy sword which Praktâsh had forgotten. She doubted the Uruk would ever grow up.


End file.
